I Am Machine
by NotMarge
Summary: Bucharest, Romania. Over a year since the crash into the Potomac. He's not the Winter Soldier anymore. He's not Bucky Barnes anymore.  He's someone else, something else. AU. Somewhat. Amelia POV beginning chapter 18. Return to Bucky's POV chapter 35. Reunion beginning chapter 36.
1. I Am Machine

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

* * *

I am machine; I never sleep.

I keep my eyes wide open.

I am machine, a part of me

Wishes I could just feel something.

I am machine; I never sleep

Until I fix what's broken.

I am machine; a part of me wishes

I could just feel something.

"I Am Machine" - Three Days Grace

* * *

"Every time, huh?"

At first he didn't realize the words were being directed at him.

There was a presence at his elbow. But people stood next to each other all the time.

Then he felt the attention.

Unwanted, direct attention.

It was her.

The woman and her child.

A boy.

He had seen them every Thursday for the past month.

And now here they were again.

Relaxing on the manicured green near the swan spotted lake.

Under a clear blue sky etched with thin wisps of clouds.

Sharing fruit. Drinking from blue containers.

Watching the boats and their occupants float by.

Seeming to take no notice of him at all. Involved in their own comings and goings.

He liked to walk there in the Cismigiu sometimes.

On the paths, through the gardens.

Across the twisted wooden bridge and next to the meandering waterway.

Alone yet surrounded by people he wasn't required to make direct contact with.

Direct contact such as he was being faced with now.

They blended in with the other civilians, the other common population.

A young, moderately attractive mother and her child.

Nothing out of the ordinary at all.

But he had noticed them.

And wondered if they were tracking him, observing him.

Biding their time to capture the Winter Soldier. Turn him in for a substantial reward.

The woman.

Medium length, wavy, auburn hair.

Slender but not painfully so. More healthy than the skinny women seemed to think was attractive now.

No makeup. Simple clothes.

And her child.

A boy between five and eight, he thought.

Dark hair. Slight.

Still and quiet.

He thought there might be something strange about him.

Still and quiet, to an extreme degree.

While at the same time preternaturally aware and alert of the immediate world around him.

But not out of unhappiness and external duress.

For when he looked at his mother, his eyes smiled.

Even when his mouth did not.

* * *

And now here she was, child in tow, standing at his side at the intersection of the busy street that separated the park from the rest of Bucharest.

He realized he had been tensed, hyperalert.

Breath caught in his throat. Jaw clenched to the point of pain.

Nostrils flaring. Eyes narrowed.

Gloved hands balled into fists.

Watching the emergency response vehicle weave its blaring way through the slow moving afternoon traffic.

And Bucky Barnes didn't have an answer for her.

 _Every time, huh?_

 _Yes. Every damn time. I know they've found me. I know I'm caught. I know I have to fight my way out and run again._

 _Because if I don't, they'll_ _turn me back over to HYDRA._

 _And make me the Winter Soldier again._

* * *

Most times, he found it a challenge to speak to strangers.

Someone might notice him.

Someone might startle him.

He usually tended to duck his head and turn away.

Fade back into the human wash.

But out of character, he met her eye.

Just for a second.

Her slightly upturned face was friendly, open.

Side-eying the Winter Soldier in a casual way. As if talking to a ninety-five year old deadly assassin were nothing out of the ordinary in her day.

As if there were some unspoken comradery between them.

And he had to look away.

Throating some nonsyllabic, noncommittal response in return.

"Mmm."

 _James Buchanan Barnes, where are your manners? Speak up and look a person in the eye when you talk to them._

 _Yes, Ma._

The woman nodded easily, as though this was the type of conversation she engaged in on a daily basis.

Maybe it was.

"Yeah, I think it's an Army thing."

This caught his attention and he surreptitiously glanced at her again from under his ballcap.

She was older than he had first thought. Maybe early thirties.

Clear, light olive skin of the naturally Mediterranean tanned.

Not tall, not short. Not bony or heavy.

She wouldn't be noticed or out of place anywhere.

Then he found himself looking into her eyes.

They were startling.

Brillant blue edged with darker blue. Flecked with green? Yellow?

Almost kaleidoscopic in nature.

She didn't seem to notice. But kept talking.

"You're always prepared for the worst. Always on edge. Nobody else really gets it."

 _I do. I get it._

She smiled again.

"Well, nice that the possible crisis is over now."

Her voice was light and airy.

Romanian in speech but with a hint of American undertone.

Unconcerned.

Because she wasn't the one being hunted.

She was free.

And he didn't know how to respond to her.

People began to move around them and he realized he was stuck in his head again.

"Well, see you around."

 _Is that a threat?_

 _No, it can't be. Look at her._

 _It might be. Anyone could be a threat._

 _She's not._

 _Maybe._

* * *

Another Thursday afternoon.

Another walk in the park.

Another chance encounter with . . .

"I'm Amelia."

He knew what was coming.

"This is Simon."

And wished it wasn't.

He didn't want to be rude.

But obviously he couldn't answer her unspoken question truthfully.

 _James Buchanan Barnes. My friends call . . ._ called _me Bucky._

And if he couldn't answer her truthfully . . .

 _I was also the first Winter Soldier._

. . . he really didn't want to answer her at all.

 _But I don't do that anymore._

Sometime all those years ago had been instilled in him an honesty and integrity.

 _If that helps._

Long since decimated by the machine called HYDRA.

"I'm . . . Carl."

A small smile touched her eyes and migrated to her lips almost instantly.

"Hmm," she murmured, looking amused. "That's interesting."

He kept his face blank even as low grade panic started constricting his chest with invisible iron bands.

"You don't strike me as a 'Carl'."

Studying him openly for a second before continuing.

"You seem more like a Billy or a Tommy or a . . ."

 _Bucky?_

". . . well, I don't know. Something."

She peered at him for another moment or two as he valiantly tried to remain impassive and casual.

Instead ducking his head away to glance down the boat spotted waterway.

And around the vicinity, unconsciously scanning for potential threats.

"Well, anyway, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Carl."

Relief flooded him as she accepted his lie.

"Simon and I come to this park every Thursday. We like to watch the boats."

Bucky didn't respond.

She removed her attention from the relieved Bucky and crossed in front of the boy then, kneeling in front of him.

Directing a pointed finger into the eyeline of the child. Then slowly moving it up as he followed it with his gaze.

Until he was looking at her.

"Simon," she spoke in a warm yet firm tone. "We're leaving in three minutes."

The boy didn't respond but dropped his gaze and returned to his inspection of the grass blades.

The woman began gathering up the scant sundries she had brought.

"Fellow American?" she inquired of the stoic man standing awkwardly a pace or two in front of her.

He nodded.

 _Very bad to be spotted by a civilian. Not good at all._

She seemed to take her time organizing and setting everything in order, more time than necessary.

About three minutes, just as she had told the child.

 _Interesting._

"Well, it's time for us to go. Maybe we'll see you next Thursday."

He nodded noncommittally.

Then she knelt again and grasped the boy's hand gently.

"Time to go, Simon."

The child did not seem interested in leaving his grass blades but made no argument.

Only rose, head down, holding his mother's hand.

"Bye, Carl."

And with another warm smile, Amelia and her strange little son went about their way.

The previously gregarious James Buchanan Barnes watched them with hooded eyes.

 _It would be better to never make contact with them again. Safer._

 _For me and them._

* * *

 **Hello, Bucky fans!**

 **Yes, this is a Bucky/OC story. No, it's not directly romantic.**

 **And no, Bucky's not gay or stuck on Steve in any way but as his best friend.**

 **Just so you know.**

 **There'll be a range of different emotions here. 'Cause humans are like that.**

 **I'll be updating once or twice a week but not daily.**

 **And I highly recommend the song to you, or at the very least, the lyrics.**

 **They're very post Winter Soldier Bucky.**

 **Alot of exposition here, the only time I'll do it, so on with your day then! :)**

 **Anyway, everybody appreciates feedback.**

 **Leave a review if you like.**


	2. How To Be Normal

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

How To Be Normal

* * *

There really was no purpose to his life. He existed to continue his existence.

And to keep his body away from the governments that sought him, from the monster that was HYDRA.

If he died and his body was found, they could use it to continue their inhuman scientific experiments.

If he died, he would never finish piecing himself together again.

If he died, HYDRA would have won.

And so he continued to live. To breathe. To trudge on.

To search for himself amid the tangled webbing of his mind.

And everyday it become more difficult.

A frightfully fractured understanding of what he had been, what he had done, and the ease with which he could be triggered into a merciless killing machine again, had led to an intense sense of self-perservation for Bucky Barnes.

Which had led to paranoia.

Which had led to a general distrust of any and all members of the human populace.

Which had led to isolation.

Which had led to intense loneliness and waves of deep depression.

He could not be trusted.

They could not be trusted.

He must not be seen, noticed, or found.

Recognized. Involved. Or connected.

It was the only way he felt he could stay safe.

Counting it as necessary for the continued survival of his freedom and the safety of potential HYDRA targets.

As well as something of a penance for the egregious sins he had commited while under the control of a seemingly innocuous set of spoken Russian words.

That somewhere out there in the world, somebody knew. Somebody who wanted him under their control.

And he could not allow that to happen.

Not again.

And so, even though he had metaphorically stepped out of the shadows for a few brief, careful spans of time, he still remained coated in darkness.

And aloof, hovering on the edges of society.

Spending his week in the same routine as he spent every week.

Working his way down the repair list his landlord provided him with.

In exchange for free rent.

Haunting construction sites, touting himself as one of the faceless general day laborers.

Taking walks.

Writing in one of his many precious notebooks.

Procuring food and making hesitant human contact at the open air market.

Finally deciding to brave his apartment building's laundry to wash his clothes instead of the sink.

 _Boy, Ma sure could've used one of these machines._

 _". . . clean shirt?"_

 _"Yes, James. Here you go, son."_

 _"Thanks, Ma!"_

Phantom smooch on the soft cheek.

Self-conscious fluttering of a dismissive hand.

 _"Oh, go on now with you."_

 _"Bye, Ma!"_

 _I'm just one person. She was laundering for six._

Keeping his head down, his nose clean.

In short, attempting to live normally.

As normally as someone like him could hope to live.

And still thinking from time to time of . . .

* * *

"Carl, hey!"

He hesitated.

 _This is a bad idea._

 _I shouldn't be here._

 _Be known._

 _To people_.

But for some reason, his sneaker-clad feet kept walking across the fresh green grass.

Not some reason.

Because he chose to.

 _I want to._

 _I miss people._

 _Nice people._

"How's it going?"

He thought he nodded.

"Mmm."

And then he held out his offering toward her.

With his left hand.

Offering, instead of pain and death . . .

 _Always bring something along to a gathering, James. It's polite manners._

 _Yes, Ma._

"Oh, I love plums! Thank you!"

* * *

"It's a warm day," Amelia observed. "Aren't you hot in that jacket, Carl?"

Hot? No, not hot. He was _stifling_.

The material of the hooded jacket and gloves were breathable enough but he was still sweating.

Well, the parts of him not composed of metal.

"I'm okay."

She studied him more a moment then seemed to take his response at face value and move on.

"More grapes, Simon?"

She held out the container toward him. And the boy diffidently turned his head away from it.

And continued to laser focus his gaze on the grass.

Individual blades of grass, Bucky surmised.

"Maybe later," she conceded, seeming unconcerned by his behavior.

Instead, setting the grapes down between them, within easy reach of the child.

And running a loving hand down along the back of his head in a gentle gesture.

Bucky watched the mother and child carefully.

Wondering. Wanting to ask.

Feeling uncomfortable doing so.

Amelia's eyes were suddenly on him and he drew his gaze away.

"You can ask, you know. It's alright."

Bucky studied the child for a moment.

"Is he . . . okay?"

The woman smiled and once again ran her mother's hand over along the back of the boy's head, down the nape of his neck, and the length of his back.

He did not shy away but he didn't outwardly respond either.

"Yes, he's okay. He's also autistic."

Bucky nodded, mentally filing the word away for further inquiry at a later time.

"He can attend to his own functions. Bathroom, feeding, and stuff like that."

The child seemed to take no notice of them, continuing to focus on the grass blades instead.

"He can understand speech and follow one step directions."

A small hand removed a grape from the container without looking.

"He can read. He doesn't really write."

Popped a grape into an open mouth. And chewed mechanically.

"He's very withdrawn, more so around people he's not used to. Doesn't like being touched or making eye contact, that kind of thing."

"And he has never spoken."

"He does best with routine and familiar things he knows."

She stopped talking and Bucky absorbed her information thoughtfully.

"He goes to a special school four days a week in the mornings. They teach academics but also socialization skills."

Another grape come from the container.

"I don't know why he is the way he is but he's my kid and I love him."

And that was the end of her speech.

Finally he said the only thing he could think of.

"Okay."

Amelia nodded mildly, a small smile painting her face prettily.

"Okay."

And Bucky Barnes found himself smiling back.

* * *

 **I'm really very happy to have some people interested in reading this story, yay!**

 **'Equilibrium' reference there near the beginning. Excellent movie by the way.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, NightOwl247, and Blue Phoenix 217 for reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to Sassiebone, Jean d, and OnYourLeft107 for adding your support to this story.**

 **You know, I think Bucky may have a touch of PTSD . . .**


	3. Grounding

I do not own Captain America anything.

But the digital copies are all mine! Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Grounding

* * *

"You know me."

The floor of the plummeting Helicarrier shuddered beneath his feet.

"NO, I _DON'T_! "

Glass shattered and flew everywhere.

"Bucky, you've known me your entire life."

Columns of metal supports groaned as they ripped apart.

"Your name is James . . . Buchanan . . . Barnes."

Debris crashing down all around him.

"SHUT UP!"

And the sound of his own screams of desperate rage ringing in his ears.

"I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend."

The blue sky and dazzlingly bright sun temporarily blinded him to the sight of The Target.

"You're my _mission_!"

Defiantly submissive and unmoving as his deadly opponent smashed his face in time and again.

"YOU! ARE! MY! MISSION!"

Which only served to heighten The Asset's confused rage and blind determination.

"Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you til the end of the line."

Almost like a living, breathing, writhing thing itself.

 _"RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHH!"_

* * *

In the dreamworld, The Asset completely broke control, smashing in The Target's face with his fist until that face's bone structure was unrecognizable and the metaled appendage dripped blood not his own.

Then the fog of confusion cleared and he beheld the still corpse of Steve Rogers.

Shot, stabbed, and beaten to death by his own two hands.

And he gazed in horror at the mutilated visage of his best friend.

A fast forward clicky 12 mm film reel of his life with his little pal Steve raced through his mind.

Never giving up, never surrendering.

Not to anybody, not to anyone.

Morphing into a larger, muscle built, impervious powerhouse of a man.

Who, for the first time, gave up the fight, unto his last breath, to break his stranger friend free of the chains of HYDRA .

And Bucky rent the sky with his gut wrenching, gutteral cry of all consuming anguish.

Reaching down with both hands, metal and flesh alike, to pull up and embrace the lifeless body.

 _Steve, I'm sorry, Steve, Steve, I'm sor-_

And when the crash came, he simply lowered his head, held tight and allowed the hungry river water to rush up.

And consume him, fill his lungs with the suffocating drowning release of death.

As he clung to the corpse of Steve Rogers.

And let the river pull them down to rest together at the bottom of the river.

* * *

In reality, Bucky Barnes awoke with a hoarse cry.

And metal buried up to the forearm in a plaster wall.

Lightening flashed and thunder crashed with a fury, rattling the building.

Shaking, he was shaking.

Gasping for breath.

And pouring sweat.

The mattress on which he lay was pushed against the wall.

So that he lay cradled on his right side.

Wrapped in a sleeping bag.

Facing the blank wall.

Which now, as he withdrew his left arm, sported a fist sized hole punched nearly through to the outer brick.

Drawing ragged breaths, he sat up.

Flinching as the lightening illuminated the newspapered windows.

 _Get control, get control, gotta get control . . ._

His heart was hammering, pulse racing.

 _Get control, get control_ now _. . ._

He jerked an arm up, fumbling for the lamp.

And nearly ripped the cord off in a desperate attempt to find his way out of the darkness.

 _Get control, ground yourself, this is reality . . ._

He cast about looking, looking.

And focused his vision on what he could see.

Focusing desperately.

Couch. Sagging couch with pillows. Two lumpy pillows.

Shelves. Long wood and concrete block shelving across the room. Mostly empty.

He didn't own anything, couldn't own anything worth saving.

Radiator in the corner. White, rusted metal.

Gave off slightly better heat than before he had tinkered with it.

He reached out his shaking human hand.

And touched.

The neat circular hole in the damaged plaster wall.

The slick outer material of the sleeping bag in which his lower body was still encased.

He eased out of it and stood shakily, putting his bare feet on the hardwood floor.

It was smooth and worn by the many, many transient tenants before him.

And cold.

The lightening flashed again and he reached out and touched the newspapered window.

It crinkled slightly under his fingertips and left a slight ink residue on his callused fingers.

His ragged breathing nearly drowned out all other auditory input.

But he did manage to hear the thunder as it rolled across the sky in rumbling waves.

The sound of late night radio show playing in the adjacent room.

And the muted, unmistakable sound of two very enthusiastic partners engaging in relations in the room above.

He drew a deep breath, smelled his own body odor, heightened afresh by the emotional reaction he was experiencing.

And the cleansing smell of rain creeping in through the cracks around the windows and backdoor.

Bucky Barnes slowly raised both hands and ran them through his long, sweat-damp hair, pulling it back from his forehead and out of his eyes.

Wiped the sheen of sweat from his tanned face.

And took another deep, stabilizing breath.

He crossed the room and opened the refrigerator.

Removing a precious bottle of pop from its chilly insides and closing the door once more.

Swigged the dark liquid with his eyes closed, leaning against the counter.

The acidic bite of the liquid jarred him a slightly, the sugar rushing through his veins, already metabolising.

 _Ahhh. Okay._

Ice cold Coca Cola.

Bucky Barnes opened his eyes.

And knew where he was.

He set down the pop and took down his current notebook from its place atop the fridge.

It was almost full.

He opened it, forcing himself to slowly leaf through it.

Little slips of colored adhesive stuck out at particular intervals, signifying sections he wanted to frequently revisit.

For the light they brought to his darkness. A thought or remembrance he wanted to explore further at a later date.

Encouragements, statements, reassurances.

Things not to be forgotten again.

The notebook, one of many, was almost full.

He hunched over it, looking for all the world like an overgrown schoolboy dutifully setting down an essay, perhaps for history class.

 _My name is James Buchanan Barnes._

 _I like to be called Bucky._

 _I did not kill Steve Rogers._

 _I am not The Winter Soldier anymore_.

He penned the third sentence very precisely, pressing harder with the pen than on the previous words.

Because it was important.

Because it needed to be remembered.

He wrote for a while, sometimes slowly, starting and stopping and halting. Even putting down his pen and staring a thousand miles beyond his surroundings.

Sometimes he wrote in a burst of scratchings.

He stopped. Ate a candybar. Drank more pop.

And continued writing.

When he was done, he closed the notebook, now filled to the brim with pieces of himself.

Pried up the floorboards.

And placed it in his hidden backpack.

Careful to avoid the few defensive weaponries he kept in there in preparation for immediate escape.

Reset the boards carefully.

And went to cleanse his body of the now dried, sour, panic sweat in which he had awoken.

When he emerged from the washroom, steady rays of clear light caressed his covered windows.

It was almost dawn.

He pulled the mattress out so it stuck out from head of the wall. Where he would only punch empty air if he woke up again swinging.

And went to retrieve the needed supplies to patch the damn hole.

* * *

 **So I thought of this chapter while watching the apartment scene in Civil War. Because I watch Captain America too much.**

 **And because I'm relatively certain Bucky has some dark nights. Which we will return to at a later time.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, and OnYourLeft107 for so graciously reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to vivalamiia89 for adding your support to this story.**


	4. A Shelter and A Home

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

A Shelter and A Home

* * *

And a month of Thursdays had done it. Yielded improbable results.

Bucky Barnes was being 'invited in'.

That's not what Amelia has called it of course.

"We're going home. Why don't you come with us for a while, Carl?"

But that was what it was.

A month of Thursdays.

Sunny skies and gentle breezes.

Grapes and plums and quiet conversations.

The woman with her simple beauty and relaxed, unaffected demeanor.

And the boy, still withdrawn. Still reserved.

Still focusing on his blades of grass.

And the world inside his own mind.

Not entirely different from the man himself.

With so much inside and so much going on outside.

Sometimes he felt as though his notebooks were his blades of grass.

The notebooks.

And, more gradually, this engaging, peaceful woman.

Who didn't even know his real name.

* * *

Bucky Barnes subsisted in a room with four walls. He sheltered there so he would not have to shelter on the streets, in the elements.

Amelia had made her space into a home. For her and her son.

When she opened the door and he hesitantly followed her in, Bucky immediately felt a sense of home.

Even though he had not experienced one in over seventy years.

The plaster walls were plain white and showed their age. If one cared to look that far.

To their left in a space set slightly back into the wall was a polished metal bar for holding coats, scarves, umbrellas, and other less than fair weather paraphernalia.

A set of dark wooden crates on their sides on the floor served to hold shoes, which Amelia and Simon . . .

"You can leave yours on if you want, Carl," . . .

 _My name's not Carl._

. . . summarily discarded.

A full length mirror leaned against the wall and Bucky chose to ignore the dour man lurking within.

 _I shouldn't be here. It's not safe._

 _I'll get caught._

 _They'll get hurt._

 _Maybe not._

And he closed the door and moved deeper into the apartment, following Amelia's lead.

The short, narrow hall opened up on their left to a small airy kitchen.

The appliances and cabinetry were dated by modern standards, though Bucky, having missed a substantial amount of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, had no clue.

Only continued to feel the pull of home tugging stronger at his core.

Floating shelves held a small but well maintained array of cooking essentials.

A rather small, dark, wooden eating table with a mismatched, yet perfectly harmonious set of four chairs around it stood positioned near a large window overlooking the outside emergency stairwell and opposing building.

The window was festooned with overflowing greenry in clay pots with labels such as thyme, parsley, mint, and an assortment of other herbal names.

Next to the kitchen was a half set of stairs leading up to a room just out of sight under the eaves.

The boy, Simon, had disappeared upon arrival.

Amelia discarded her bag and headed straight forward under an archway doubling as an over stuffed bookcase and into a sitting room.

The homey area was made bigger by the slanted ceiling with a wide, rectangular skylight. A crank set into the wall served to open the pane, allowing for additional airflow throughout the small space.

Warm sunlight filtered down into the room and illuminated its comfortably aged furniture.

A worn plush sofa with brightly colored pillows and a light quilt hanging over one arm.

A set of narrow end tables flanking the couch. Stacked with books.

A chair, faded green Chinese silk, at an angle to the couch.

Exposed dark wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling. Attached to one was a cushioned wicker sitting swing that hung almost to the floor.

Bucky knelt down on the hardwood floor and drew a hand across the beautiful retangular rug of differently patterned red and yellow and green and orange sections.

It was painted on.

He rose, slightly mystified and enchanted.

And remained still for a moment, absorbing his current surroundings.

The entire apartment, so much as he could surmise, was no more than eight hundred square feet, three times the size of his living space.

But it felt like the safest place in the entire world.

Here there was no danger. No secret agendas, no agents, no spies.

And no HYDRA.

He thought here he could be a different person.

Here the windows were not covered in newspaper to protect from prying eyes.

Here there wasn't just a crumpled sleeping bag atop mattress flung on the floor.

Here there was not loneliness and isolation and solitude.

Here there was warmth and acceptance and patience and a sense of hope.

He mentally shook himself back to reality and realized he was still alone.

To the right, a door stood open and beyond it, he could see a space barely big enough for a bed tucked sideways under the slanted window.

Covered by a handmade scraps quilt.

At the end of the bed, Amelia stood facing what looked like a sliding closet door. Speaking quietly and calmly in English.

". . . you want to, okay?"

Then she turned and Bucky reverted his gaze self consciously.

She joined him in the sitting area.

"Simon needs some decompression time. He's in his nook so we'll give him some space. I'm going to make some coffee if you want to wash your hands."

She gestured toward a door set off from the kitchen.

Bucky took his cue and went through it.

The white tiled washroom was tiny and narrow and efficient.

Pedastal sink with mirror, a toliet, and a divider beyond which stood a shower area with a drain.

At the far end, a small window set high into the wall.

Attached to the wall around the sink were wicker baskets filled with toiletry items.

Several towel hooks.

Bath mats.

All very mundane and commonplace.

Things in he might have in his apartment. In either lives.

So why was he having such strong feelings of coming home and yearning to stay?

 _Because it's life. Real life. Not fake life. Everything about these people is real._

 _Everything except me._

* * *

"This is a nice apartment," he offered tentatively as Amelia finished brewing their coffee.

She smiled offhandly.

"Thanks. It was my great uncle's. I used to visit here in the summer growing up. He left it to my dad in his will. A few years after Jack died . . ."

Here she paused, as if intentionally omitting parts of a story.

". . . I came out here for a break. Just never went back."

Bucky realized he was supposed to be part of the conversation.

"Jack?"

Amelia set down their cups, set out cream and sugar, and placed herself in a kitchen chair.

"My husband. Army. Afghanistan. When I was pregnant with Simon."

Her usually bright face had drawn grim, voice flat.

A thousand miles out the window.

"My mom and I . . . disagreed on, well, alot of things, you know, marrying an Army guy, moving around. And we definitely disagreed on Simon."

Her lovely eyes shifted unconsciously toward the door beyond where the unseen Simon currently resided.

"He used to be really out of control and she kept trying to get the doctor to put him on all these different medications or trying to get me to put him away somewhere to avoid embarrassment and I . . . I just wanted my son. I remembered being happy here and feeling free. So I made Dad give me the apartment. Been here ever since."

She seemed to run out of words then and Bucky realized the air was very quiet.

"You're very strong," he observed quietly. "To go against your mother. Go off by yourself."

She chuckled humorlessly.

"It's easier the farther apart we are."

She fell silent again and he waited.

Then she concluded her exposition.

"We've got a manageable routine now, we practice calming techniques, and we're on a mostly Paleo diet. Most days he's just a quiet little boy."

Bucky Barnes, man of the boiled food '40s, had no idea what Paleo was.

But whatever Amelia Watson was doing seemed to be making both her and her son happy.

So he simply nodded in agreement.

Then Amelia Watson switched topics.

"So, Carl, what do you do?"

* * *

 **Wow, talk about encouraging reviews! Thanks so much to brigid1318, cairistona7, OnYourLeft107, vivalamiia89, Sassiebone, Jean, and brynerose! Thank you so much!**


	5. Amelia Watson, Old Town Tour Guide

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Amelia Watson, Old Town Tour Guide

* * *

"Oooh, share a covrigi with me?"

Bucky Barnes, in order to escape the suffocating walls of his bare apartment and his isolation, frequently haunted the streets of Bucharest. Amid throngs of common citizens. Tourists.

Silent. Head down.

A ghost of man.

Withdrawn and alone.

But now . . .

"Ugh, I don't want to be a web designer tomorrow . . ."

 _Web designer? Are you a secret spider?_

". . . and it won't take me long to finish my blog . . ."

 _Sounds like an illness._

"Want to take a walk with me instead?" Amelia suggested the next Thursday. "We can meet here and walk Old Town."

Bucky Barnes mulled it over in his memory jumbled . . .

 _"Oh god, please don't kill me!"_

 _". . . all the stupid with you."_

 _"Your work is a gift to mankind . . ."_

 _"Who the hell is Bucky?"_

. . . mind.

It was a complete deviation from his regular routine.

Involvement. Engagement.

Socialization.

It was dangerous.

Someone might recognize him.

Someone might attack him, endanger her.

Amelia, however held no such reservations.

"Come on, I need a break, Carl! You don't want an innocent, tiny, helpless little woman walking the city alone, do you?"

Or at least not in the same way he did.

Her tone was lilting and joking but nevertheless, nightmare images assailed his inner eye.

Helpless, defenseless Amelia Watson stalked, beset, and attacked by dangerous, hulking men.

Alone.

While the man who had once been the proud and loyal James Buchanan Barnes sulked and hid away in a crackerjack box of a room.

Though Bucky Barnes trained himself to keep an impassive face (or so he thought), something must have darkened behind his eyes because Amelia's teasing smile faded.

Her bright expression grew solemn and sincere.

"I'm just joking. I took Krav Maga for years," she insisted quietly. "I can take care of myself. It's okay."

Bucky didn't know what Krav Maga was . . .

 _Is that a penny comic villian?_

. . . but for all her confidence and assurance, he hated the thought of her being alone.

 _Always walk a young lady home, son. Look after her. It's your responsibility as a gentleman._

 _Yes, Pop._

Plus . . .

 _I like being with her._

Wisps of clouds drifted through the sky as the awkward moment stretched out between them and Bucky pulled himself together with some effort and Amelia probably wondered if he was nuts.

Then . . .

"Yeah, that sounds good."

And her easy smile returned, crinkled the corners of her blue eyes.

"Great! Simon's in school by eight. What time do you get up?"

 _I'm up all the time. I don't sleep well._

"Any time."

She shrugged.

"Okay, I'll see you at ten!"

"Okay."

* * *

So now here they were.

Side by side.

With Amelia's ocean blue eyes wide and round and hungry.

At the sight of fresh, hot stuffed pretzels.

"It's not Paleo _at all_ but Simon's not here _soooo_. . ."

So the man with the metal arm and the woman who was rapidly becoming his own personal equivalent of human sunshine split a twisted hot dough.

And the Winter Soldier strove not to drip chocolate into his scruffy beard

"Oh my gosh, this is so good!"

She wasn't wrong.

* * *

It was relatively quiet yet.

They had walked the two kilometers to Old Town and were now strolling the cobblestoned streets of the center of Bucharest.

Many of the clubs and restaurants were shuttered after late night revelries had finally come to a roiling close.

But a few cafes and walk-in bakeries had opened their doors to waft out enticing smells for the early morning pedestrians with a jingle in their pockets.

And Bucky and Amelia were still pre-covrigi.

They'd walked the past the Grand Cafe Van Gogh.

An impressive, trendy establishment.

Patrons quietly enjoying coffee and the morning air at the sidewalk tables outside.

"They've got good food and the atmosphere's really fun," she relayed brightly. "Want to go in and share something?"

Bucky hesitated.

Enclosed space.

Limited exit points.

Up-close and personal interactions.

Maybe cameras.

Something must shown on his face because Amelia looked from him to the heavy wooden doors and back again.

Then turned away to continue walking on.

"Eh, maybe some other time."

He followed her, grateful she wasn't making an issue of it.

Guilty that he couldn't be the fun-loving man . . .

 _Hey, Steve, what do you say we treat these girls to a good time?_

. . . he thought he had once been.

The ensuing covrigi helped a little.

"I could eat these every day!"

 _Me too_.

* * *

Seeming to instinctively realize that the narrow, crowded walkways of the indoor shopping Centre of Pasajul Maaca-Vilacrosse would result in a highly uncomfortable walking companion, Amelia subtly steered them clear of gothically exotic structure.

And instead, into the clear, fresh air and crumbling ruins of the Old Court Palace.

"There's so much history here," she gushed excitedly at the bust of Vlad Tepes. "I used to read the Anne Rice vampire books all the time when I was a teenager!"

 _Vampires._

 _Me and Steve snuck into Dracula when we were fourteen. I was so scared but I wouldn't let on._

"Come on," Amelia declared, whipping out her phone. "Let's take a picture with Vlad."

Bucky reflexively ducked away.

Facial recognition software.

Government eyes.

HYDRA.

"What?" Amelia looked confused. "I won't Facebook it. If you ask nice."

Her joke was lost on him.

 _Face-book?_

"Carl?"

 _My name's not Carl._

Bucky surreptitiously looked at his watch.

"Nothing. Maybe we should walk back."

She frowned.

"Did I say something? Is this about the picture? I didn't mean . . ."

He summoned a smile he did not feel.

"No. I just have to go."

She studied him for a long moment.

"Okay."

And he walked her home.

* * *

 **These places are real, I researched them. And so interesting!**

 **Anyway, just a fun fluff chapter. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, and Sassiebone for reviewing.**

 **Thanks also to sharieo, Krin67, and tamarabvillar for adding your support to this story.**

 **How long do you think he can lie and say he's 'Carl'?**


	6. Late Night Visitor

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Late Night Visitor

* * *

He awoke with a start. He had heard it.

Something outside the window.

They had found him.

They were coming for him.

Which meant subsequently that they had found Amelia and Simon as well.

Bucky Barnes launched himself up in the darkness, every muscle tensed and ready for a fight.

He couldn't let them get hurt because of him.

And because of his lies, they had no idea they were in danger.

He jammed his bare feet into sneakers.

Jerked on a hoodie.

Cracked open the apartment door.

And peered out into the hall.

It was empty, the empty that really was empty.

And he knew his pursuers were already on the move.

That he already might be too late.

Bucky ran down the well-worn stairs, faster and faster.

A lesser super soldier would have tangled up his feet and snapped his neck on the way down.

But he was built for speed.

Engineered for efficiency.

And trained for war.

He made it to street level faster than even he would have believed possible .

And teeth gritted, jaw clenched, raced into the waiting night.

* * *

He banged on the door, convinced it was futile, that they were already dead.

That in a moment, he would have to tear down the door and face their their mangled, cooling corpses.

Their blood splattered on the walls, pooling on that special painted rug.

He banged again in desperation, chest heaving.

Sweaty palms gripping either side of the doorframe, counting down the seconds until he ripped the barrier from its hinges.

And then the door unlocked and creaked inward.

Just enough to see her.

Amelia looked amazingly alive and healthy for a dead woman.

"Carl? What is it? What's going on?"

If somewhat rumpled.

Still wrapping her robe around herself, fumbling with the sash.

"Are you . . . Is Simon . . . Are you both okay?"

She looked bewildered.

"Yeah. What-"

Alarmed.

"Can I come in and check?"

As she backed up to grant him entry.

He darted over the threshold and into the dimly lit apartment, hyperaware and hyperalert.

The full length mirror to his left revealed a slightly wild eyed man caught up in a nightmare of his own creation.

He scouted each room in quick succession, careful and through.

An ill at ease Amelia following a few paces behind.

Dashing up the short steps to Simon's attic room, where the boy softly snored into his teddybear.

And back down into the kitchen, the large, plant-festooned window drawing his agitated attention.

Snipers could be atop any building, in any room.

And the helpless victims would never know it until bullets pierced flesh.

The bathroom. Still refresh with shower smells. And absolutely clear of any hidden dangers.

Out into the kitchen again, under the archway and into the the living area now.

More clear glass window to heighten his paranoia.

He had once, as the Winter Soldier, shot and murdered a man through a solid wall with no windows at all.

These were obscene in their vulnerability.

Her bedroom, shamelessly advancing into the safe haven where she spent her most private of times in the sweet escape of sleep.

Sweeping that space with his sharp gaze.

Rumpled bed tucked under a slanted glass window.

 _Too many windows, line of sight-_

Chinese red nightstand with its softly glowing lamp. Hardback book, chapter marked with a slip of paper.

Standing metal clothes hanger laden with simple, comfortable garments.

Shoes neat in a line below.

Throwing open the door to Simon's tiny closet nook.

With its bookshelves and covered mattress and sleeping bag much like his own.

Clear. All clear and quiet and calm and safe.

As was the rest of the humble abode.

That he could see.

His search ended with naught to show but an overly paranoid Bucky and an exasperated and more than a little frightened Amelia.

Heart rate finally beginning to slow, he turned to face her.

Amelia.

Who had subtly placed herself between Simon's door and her uninvited late night visitor.

Blue eyes narrowed and suspicious as he had never seen them.

"Carl, what the _hell_? Are you drunk or something?"

He realized he was panting.

A light sheen of sweat standing out on his skin.

Metal hand tightly clenched in its glove.

"No, I can't get drunk," he offhandedly answered her question before returning to the issue at hand. "I . . . I . . . I thought you were in danger."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

" _Why_?"

He refused to chew the inside of his bottom lip for a moment before replying.

"Because of me."

She didn't move.

" _Why_? Who are _you_?"

He didn't respond. He couldn't.

Amelia took a deep breath and blew it out in a burst. Her arms, wrapped around her already, tightened further in resolve.

Her tone was edged with steel that told him she would not be deterred.

"Carl, I can't afford to have people in my life that I can't trust. I won't endanger my son over a nutjob. Start talking or get out."

Bucky looked at her.

He should leave.

Leave her and her kid alone.

Let her draw her own conclusions about his bizarre behavior.

And just leave.

And he would.

But she had been so nice to him.

And he was tired of lying.

Bucky Barnes reached up and took off his ballcap with one gloved hand, running the other through his sweat-damp hair.

"My name's not Carl."

She raised an sardonic eyebrow.

"Shocker."

Then she fell silent, waiting.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes. My friends used to call me Bucky."

She made no response to this.

"I'm wanted by the government because I'm a trained assassin."

Her expression remained impassive.

"They brainwashed me. Called me the Winter Soldier . . ."

At the moniker, a muscle near her jaw started working.

". . . and made me kill alot of people for them."

She seemed to visibly tighten around herself.

"I don't know if any of them deserved it . . . but I did it anyway."

He couldn't believe he was speaking the words aloud.

And he couldn't believe he was continuing.

Or why.

Except she hadn't started screaming yet.

Or running. Or hitting.

And he wanted her to understand.

"I almost killed my only friend before he broke through the conditioning. But he gave me back enough of myself to stop."

 _Steve. I'm sorry, Steve._

"And I haven't done it since."

She stood affixed to the spot.

He waited.

She considered.

Then spoke slowly.

"So if this is true, why are you blowing your cover and telling me?"

He had been asking himself that very same question since he started talking.

But he knew the answer.

"Because you're a good person and you don't deserve what I've done to you and your son. You deserve to know the truth."

She didn't move and he waited.

"You could just be crazy. Some dude who heard a news story and fixated."

He had to give it to her. She had a good poker face.

Silently he dropped the cap on the table and slowly removed the glove covering his metallic hand.

And laid the cloth next to the cap.

She observed the appendage for a minute. He wiggled the fingers.

But she was tough.

"Shiny, Carl. I mean, James. _Bucky_."

In any other situation, he would have smiled to hear her say his real name.

But instead he only unzipped and took off the hoodie.

Revealing a white tshirt. And a muscular metal arm all the way up to the bicep.

Her eyebrows almost migrated into her auburn hairline then.

But she held her ground.

"Nice sleeve. I can buy one on Amazon for fifty bucks."

It wasn't exactly true of course. But Bucky Barnes didn't even know what Amazon was.

He narrowed his eyes a little at her in exasperation.

And Amelia Watson held her ground.

"Come on then, Super Soldier. Let's have it."

A challenged Bucky Barnes shrugged out of his shirt to stand bare chested in front of a woman who not even five minutes ago had learned his real name.

 _This can't be normal. Not even now._

He dropped the shirt atop his other discarded items on her small eating table.

Feeling the chill in the air of a dwelling not his.

And feeling nervous.

Beyond nervous.

Terrified.

But also relieved.

His secret was out.

He could stop hiding.

At least from her.

And when it was over and she had kicked him to the curb, he would retrieve his notebook laden backpack from under the floorboards of his apartment.

And run.

Again.

But for now, James Buchanan Barnes stood. Just stood.

Silently.

In the kitchen of Amelia Watson.

Half-naked . . .

 _I wish I could ask Steve if this is normal now._

. . . and dully gleaming.

* * *

 **Thanks to brigid1318, tamarabvillar, bynerose, and smiley for graciously reviewing!**

 **Thanks also to ladymoonscar and justmeesh33 for adding your support to this story.**

 **Hey Smiley, you really caught on to something here. That's exactly what Amelia does! And it is very purposeful on her part. And mine. Thank you ;)**

 **So, uh, Bucky is all shirtless in Amelia's apartment here. Any thoughts on that?**


	7. Impossible Things

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Impossible Things

* * *

She stared, mouth slightly agape.

Stared him, him and his monstrous metal arm.

And Bucky wondered what she would do next.

Would she shout? Scream?

Hit him? Shoot him?

Grab Simon and run away?

Then instead of having any other possible reaction, Amelia Watson took a step forward and approached the man who had once been the Winter Soldier.

Holding his gaze with her kaleidoscopic blue eyes.

He had not expected this calm advance.

Didn't understand the strategy.

And was disconcerted by it.

When she stood mere inches from him, she stopped.

Gaze traveling down from his grim face to his muscular chest.

His shoulder with its extensive scar tissue.

And of course, the metal arm.

Her hand raised slowly, like a cobra, and he tensed.

She paused, looking back up at him with a questioning expression.

He didn't want her to touch the exposed metal.

It was unclean, invisibly soiled by the deaths of so many innocent people.

But she wanted to.

And after stumbling around in her life and lying to her, he guessed he owed her that before he disappeared forever.

Again.

So he didn't move, let her make her own choice.

Nobody ever touched the Winter Soldier.

No one except technicians in gloves and labcoats.

People begging for their lives.

Opponents in the heat of battle.

And certainly no one ever with gentleness.

When Amelia's trembling fingers brushed his left collarbone, the isolated man instantly felt every single nerve in his body reroute to that spot.

Her touch was feather light and soft as it traveled slowly across the seventy year old scar tissue.

". . . hurt," she whispered almost to herself. "It looks like it hurt . . ."

Bucky muttered some nonsensical agreement she seemed not to hear.

So focused was she on gathering every bit of her courage to touch the shiny metal.

"Cold . . . can you even feel anything with it?"

He nodded slightly, feeling hypnotized by her closeness, her apparent lack of fear of him and his inhuman self.

"Of course you can," she continued talking to herself, running her hand slowly down the bicep to the elbow to the forearm. "Can't hold a gun right or use to knife if you can't feel it . . ."

The entire situation felt too unreal to be happening.

And then she reached his wrist, down to his hand.

Curled her fingers around his metal ones.

And he curled back carefully.

"Strong . . . gentle . . ."

Then she let go and dropped her hand away.

He felt relief mixed with regret at the loss of sensation.

Amelia raised a hand to her forehead, as if focusing her energy.

Or simply attempting to keep her brain from exploding with this barrage of new, overwhelmingly bizarre information.

Closing her eyes, opening them again.

Blinking heavily several times as if to clear her thoughts. And stepping back.

"Alright, GQ Model, you win. I believe. You can put your clothes back on."

Though he didn't completely understand her statement . . .

 _GQ?_

. . . Bucky shrugged back into his clothes, one piece at a time.

As a slightly shellshocked Amelia moved past him further into the kitchen area.

"Alice in Wonderland isn't grown up enough for alcohol but I am. And I think I'm all full of impossible things right now."

She set two glasses down on the table, clinking them slightly with trembling fingers.

Opened the freezer.

And removed a frosted bottle of vodka.

Bucky was shocked.

She didn't seem the type.

She poured a shot for each of them and replaced the bottle into the freezer with a decisive clunk.

He caught her eye, wondering if she was a mind reader when she spoke quietly.

"No, before you ask, I'm not the type."

Then she downed the drink in a quick gulp, like a little kid taking expactortant.

Coughed against it.

Shook her head, grimacing.

And sat down.

Bucky remained standing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Are you going to contact the authorities now? "

He needed to know how fast he needed to move to stay ahead of HYDRA.

Amelia peered at him, as if trying to figure him out.

"Do you want me to?"

Bucky Barnes stared at his hands.

Phantom blood soaked them crimson, permanently staining them.

Or so he thought.

"I deserve it."

It was not a martyr, poor-me statement but simply an admonition of deep seated, truly felt guilt.

He sat down, placing both hands on the tabletop to show his peacefulness toward her.

Amelia studied him carefully before responding slowly.

"No, I don't think so."

Then she rose again, wrapping her arms around her pale blue wrapped body again.

As if warding off the horrors of his ordeal.

"What was done to you was unspeakable. The simple fact that you survived, broke through, and are sitting here now is a miracle."

She leaned forward toward him, hands splayed on the tabletop.

And spoke calmly. But with great conviction and emotion coloring her measured words.

"Most people have no idea how precious their lives are. They don't realize how precious their _freedom_ is. Physical freedom, emotional freedom. Mental freedom."

He once again felt hypnotized by her, as if she were attempting to weave together his fractured soul.

"You can't fix whatever you've done in the past. You can only fight to be a good person now."

The intensity of her gaze, of her voice, strengthened further.

"And never give up fighting. Ever. Because you were, and are, and can be, a good man."

Men in the 1940s were taught never to cry. Never to show emotion that might make them appear weak.

But the 1940s had been a long time ago.

And Bucky Barnes had been through alot.

The pain started in his heart, a swelling ache that expanded, filling his chest cavity.

Constricting his breathing, causing it to harshen, become erratic.

The sensation traveled upward past the sudden obstruction in his throat.

To his facial muscles tightening, pulling down.

And eyes, those clear blue eyes, filling with brimming moisture threatening to spill over.

He ducked his head.

Instinctually raising his hands, both flesh and metal, to contain it. Hide his crumbling wall.

And Amelia, unembarassed, pitying, or repulsed, turned away.

Allowing him his time of emotion, his release of grief.

Discreetly placing a clean rag near his elbow.

And busying herself with small, menial tasks around an already tidy kitchen area.

Gradually his muffled outburst subsided and he grew calm once again.

His breathing evened out and his hands slowly lowered to rest, knuckles touching, on the table.

Where he found within easy reach, a cup of water replacing the disposed shot of vodka.

Feeling drained and exhausted, he sipped it, feeling his body respond favorably to the welcome liquid.

It was quite a bit longer before he could look directly at her without the pain constricting his chest again.

But finally he managed it and looked her in the eye.

"Thank you, Amelia."

She smiled gently.

"You're welcome, Bucky."

He started to rise and turn away, to do what he didn't quite know.

But she stopped him with a gentle hand on his fabric covered metal arm.

"I understand why, okay? But no more lies. No more bullshit. _Carl_."

A rare smile lifted the corner of his mouth. And he felt himself lightening just a bit.

"Yes, ma'am."

* * *

 **So, maybe a little explanation is in order?**

 **It could be misconstrued that Bucky revealed too much, too easily, too early. Unless you consider the fact that it's been a few months since he met Amelia and Simon (who will be playing a bigger role in later chapters), Bucky's extremely lonely, and all of this is my AU because I simply could not leave Bucky just alone for two years because I'm not tough enough.**

 **Yeah, I said it. ;)**

 **Also, Amelia being who she is and Bucky being who he used to be, would both have had it worse off had the lie gone on any longer. And hopefully the 'Shocker' snark in the previous chapter along with all the observances she's been taking of him reveal that she suspected something (certainly not this tho, ha) but was trying to give him time.**

 **And he didn't reveal anymore than he already knew when Steve caught up with him in Civil War, which is only a few months in the future.**

 **And no, to clarify, Amelia is not HYDRA or SHIELD or any sort of spy scoping him out because once again, I can't do that to Bucky. A missed plot twist opportunity I know, but just a little mercy here for our pal. Plus, this is a story focusing more on developing post Winter Solder Bucky's humanity again rather than knock-down, drag-out.**

 **Anyway, I'm hoping all this works for you, gentle readers, and if it doesn't, I hope you find a fic to enjoy that does. And I always appreciate your time in reading. :)**

 **Very grateful thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, OnYourLeft107, tamarabvillar, and initial Jd (nope not bringing on the sexy, I don't think Bucky trusts himself yet and Amelia doesn't throw herself too easily at the guys, not even half-naked Bucky, she's got a kid to think of) for your honest reviews.**

 **And thanks to vajbff, TheFrenchRevolution, and BarnesandMiddleEarth (I got that reference) for adding your support to this story.**

 **But I didn't say it was over yet. You've heard the phrase 'the straw that broke the camel's back'? Well, sometimes the littlest things . . .**


	8. Forget to Mention Something?

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Forget to Mention Something?

* * *

Bucky Barnes went about the next two days feeling both more off kilter, more relieved, and more uneasy than he had in quite some time.

There was someone out there who knew about him.

Knew about him and accepted him.

And didn't care about his past.

Conversely, that same someone also now had a huge amount of power over him.

And huge amount of control.

Because she _knew_ him.

It was freeing.

And disconcerting.

He vacilated between smiling quietly to himself. And controlling sudden swelling surges of panic attacks.

* * *

Bucky Barnes, lean, mean member of the Howling Commandos.

Merciless dead-eyed master assassin of the covert organization known as HYDRA.

Wanted escapee from said organization.

Wanted murderer.

Subtly cowering against the ire of a woman that barely reached his nose.

"1917."

He had known he was hip-deep in it as soon as she had opened the door.

 _Uhhh . . ._

"I Googled you . . ."

 _You did what to me?_

". . . after you left. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes. You've got your own display at the Steve Rogers/Captain America exhibit! Because you were his best friend! And born in _1917_!"

He stared blankly at her. In the face of being the Winter Soldier, a deadly, brainwashed assassin, being really old just hadn't seemed important to enough to mention at the time.

"What the _hell,_ Bucky!"

Apparently it was.

"I thought I told you not to lie to me anymore! Somewhere in telling me you were a _wanted_ ex-assassin, you should have also told me were a _hundred year old_ wanted ex-assassin! I mean, it would have been organic to the conversation!"

He stood, caught and nailed to the wall. Figuratively.

By the kind, patient mother of seven year old autistic Simon Watson.

And she was _pissed_.

"You. Have. A Metal. Arm."

She emphasized each word.

Then launched an her assault.

"You really think _cryofreeze_ is more impossible for me to believe? Especially since Captain America . . ."

 _Steve_.

". . . came out of the ice? And New York sprouted _aliens_? And Sokovia floated up into the _air_?! And a killer Terminator robot attempted to take over the _world_?!"

He didn't know what a terminator was but he hardly had time to care. The gentle Amelia was on fire.

"Bucky, for God's sake, I'm not some delicate little glass flower who can't handle shit!"

Two spots of red were standing out high on her cheeks.

"What _else_ are you not telling me?!"

Bucky had never seen her so mad.

Or so oddly lovely.

He also was highly aware and concerned she might haul off and throw something at him.

Hit him.

Or worse, demand he leave and never return.

"And I already _told_ you that I can't have people in my life that I can't trust!"

She stopped talking, face furious and beautiful.

And already decided.

 _I don't want to be alone anymore._

He opened his mouth to speak, unsure of what was going to come out of it.

Pre-war Bucky had a best pal. Steve. A few close friends. Many easy acquaintances. And of course, a large enough family so he was never truly alone unless he chose to be.

But he had never needed a constant stream of people around him.

And he could, of course, make do without any now.

In a way, it was easier. Never having to worry about anyone's safety other than his own.

But in a bigger way, it was so much harder.

The silence, the isolation. The loneliness.

James Buchanan Barnes was not weak.

Not physically. Not mentally. Not emotionally.

But he was, even though he did not entirely believe it anymore, still human.

As he opened his mouth to speak, Amelia Watson raised a determined hand.

"No, please don't say anything. I'm confused enough already. I need time to think about this and what's best for me and Simon. I _like_ you, Bucky. I still believe you are a good person. I still want to be your friend. I just need time to think. I need time to process."

He closed his mouth, heart hammering sickly.

Amelia's lovely face was pulled down and strained.

 _It's my fault she looks like that._

She took a deep breath and let it out quietly.

Though it seemed to do nothing to relieve her stress.

"Today is Sunday. Simon and I will be at the Cismigiu Thursday like always in our same spot. Come spend the afternoon with us there. For now, I need you to go."

Then she closed her mouth and set her jaw.

Crossed in front of him without touching him.

And opened her apartment door, signaling her request of his departure.

And Bucky knew their time until Thursday was done.

He memorized every aspect of her closed face for a few scant seconds before nodding his head and walking stoically out of her apartment.

"Bucky."

Her tone had softened just a touch.

He turned back.

"Please come Thursday, okay? I mean it."

He nodded again.

Turned.

Heard the door shut quietly behind him.

And left.

* * *

It was a long week for Bucky.

He did not eat well.

He did not sleep well. Not that he ever had in this current life.

He was morose. He was dejected.

He trudged through his daily routine, his menial jobs, like a zombie.

And he thought about them.

Amelia. With her soft touch.

With her quiet, calming presence. Yet somehow still full of energy and vitality.

Her freely given friendship.

Simon.

In some ways, so similar to Bucky himself.

Struggling to adapt to such a loud and bright and obtrusive world.

He thought about himself when he was with them.

He felt like he was a part of something. Like he wasn't such a monster.

Which made him more of a monster for deceiving them and breaking their trust.

And he resolved not to go Thursday.

To fade away, back into the faceless mass.

Back to being just him. Him and his notebooks.

And his fading hope.

 _I won't go._

 _I'll just leave them alone._

 _It's for the best._

 _For them._

* * *

But on Thursday, as the time approached for him to meet them, the meeting he wasn't going to, Bucky Barnes grew more worked up and anxious until he could barely stand his own skin. His own metal.

The walls of his apartment were closing in.

He couldn't write in his current notebook.

He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe.

 _I knew this was a mistake. I was better before. I'm too dependent on them._

He couldn't see them.

And finally, he left the apartment, determined to take a walk.

In the opposite direction of the Cismigiu.

* * *

But he went all the same

Knowing they wouldn't be there.

Amelia loved her son, did her best by him.

Created a routine and life they both could live by.

And she would have moved them to a different location in the vast gardens and tree-lined paths.

He would not know where they were.

And he would not search for them.

He would continue on alone. As he should.

* * *

But they _were_ there.

Just like always.

Simon with his grass blades and grapes.

Amelia with her auburn hair and sunglasses.

He felt a surge of relief mixed with apprehension at seeing them.

What more would she say?

What more would he do?

He approached slowly, bag of plums in hand.

Wondering if he should even be allowed in their presence.

 _They don't kill people._

Feeling he shouldn't.

But wanting to. Needing to.

Amelia looked up as his shadow reached her.

And the windows to her soul hidden behind dark lenses.

And for the first time since he'd known her, her mouth stayed a thin, flat line.

He stopped at her inscrutable gaze.

And tried to remember how to smile.

"Sit down."

She didn't seem herself, at least not the self he had come to know and enjoy the company of.

She seemed . . . removed.

He did as he was told, unable to keep his hypervigilant gaze from darting here and there.

Wondering if the authorities were closing in.

Wondering if she were only stalling for time.

As Amelia continued her veiled inspection of him.

"I don't trust many people," she began. "I can't afford to. I've got to protect Simon. I've got to think of him first."

As he had seen her do a countless number of times, she ran her gentle hand down her son's neck and back.

"I understand I have to accept there are things you have to keep to yourself, things that you can't tell me. For safety. I get that. I was an Army wife."

Bucky couldn't argue. It was all true.

"But if you are going to be a real friend, stay and have a grape. Otherwise, get up and walk away now."

Bucky looked at her. Looked at the boy.

And back to her.

And took a grape.

The juice was tart and biting.

Amelia Watson took off her glasses, revealing bright blue eyes.

And smiled.

"Hey."

"Hey."

* * *

 **Hey, everybody has their breaking point. Just give her some time, I think. It's alot to absorb.**

 **Speaking of which, I had the idea to flip this around when I'm done with Bucky (who can ever really be done with Bucky) and go with Amelia's perspective. Are you interested, gentle readers, or no? I think there's so much more of her story we're not privy to from Bucky's perspective. Inner thoughts and such. More time with Simon. And from a completely different angle.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, Sassiebone, OnYourLeft107, BarnesandMiddleEarth, eileanskye, and Sarcastic Rain (I just love that penname) for reviewing.**

 **Thanks also jcmac1228 and singbrina for adding your support to this story.**


	9. Simon's New Game

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Simon's New Game

* * *

Everything was routine.

Because he made it routine.

When he had first regained conscious and relative control of himself, a long time had passed when he had attempted to use only his right hand, ignoring the monstrous metal left as much as possible.

It was very ineffectual and annoying for the most part.

Frustratingly hobbling.

Then a voice unheard had spoken in his mind.

Suggested a workable alternative.

To use the left as normally as possible.

 _It was made to kill people._

 _So make it useful for other things._

So he did.

Brushing his teeth.

Making a sandwich.

Tying his shoes.

And now the former Winter Soldier used both hands interchangeably.

Forcing himself to accept his titanium alloyed left hand as regrettably permanent.

And necessary.

Not that anyone knew the struggle.

Because he didn't bother to broach the subject.

 _I have a metal arm._

 _And I can juggle._

 _Wanna see?_

* * *

The inhuman, metal hand was locked, unyielding, uncompromising.

Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ , escaped its grip.

Nothing.

Except maybe a child.

Simon Watson, the silent autistic, was slowly, very slowly working open the gloved fingers on the metal left hand.

One at a time.

A treasure lay hidden within.

A treasure Simon was dedicated to discovering.

With the warm sun on his back and an inviting breeze tousling his brown hair.

He worked tirelessly, methodically.

Just as he had done over and over for the past half hour.

The problem was, everytime he would peel two or three fingers up from off the treasure and begin to work on another, the raised fingers would lower back down.

And he would find himself back at square one.

However, much to his mother's relief, he did not seem to become frustrated by the development.

He would simply stop, look at the fingers that had betrayed him.

And start to work all over again.

The man attached to the hidden shiny metal phalanges might have had something to do with this positive patience practice and subsequent success.

Bucky Barnes sat cross legged on the shorn green grass, left arm stretched out over his knee toward the child.

He watched him closely, focusing on his facial tics, his tells.

When the fingers gently but firmly closed back over the treasure so closely attainable for yet another time and the child's eyes narrowed and darkened, Bucky relented on the next attempt.

Allowing the super human strength of the child to overcome his own.

Eventually prying up all four fingers plus the thumb.

To reveal it.

An American copper penny. Old but legible. 1917.

A rare find.

Bucky had been watching his own feet trudge to his temporary home in Budapest.

And had seen it.

Dropped by an errant tourist, a wayward traveler.

At first he had panicked.

It was a sign. A signal.

Somebody knew about him. Somebody had found him.

Somebody was watching.

He had melted away into the shadows, fleeing to his hovel deep in the Budapest ghettos.

Hiding out, isolated. Watching and waiting for the attack.

Another sign, another signal.

But none came.

He eventually fled anyway out of anxiety and paranoia.

But the penny stayed in his possession.

And now, as little Simon triumphantly plucked the coin from his now open palm, Bucky Barnes smiled.

He'd had the thought one day while mixing concrete on a construction site, not to try to refuse the boy his focus, but to redirect it.

Call it a psychological experiment.

One without excruciating electroshocks and flashing lights and a bit in the mouth.

So the next time they had met at the park, Bucky had murmured his idea to Amelia.

Who had shrugged amicably . . .

"Well, he likes to do jigsaw puzzles with me sometimes, so go ahead and try if you like. We'll see what happens."

. . . and acquiesed with some light consideration.

So Bucky had sat down as close as Simon allowed.

Took out his penny.

And unobtrusively began to inspect it within open view.

Amelia had watched silently with interest.

As Bucky had solely focused on the penny.

Turning it over, walking it along his knuckles.

It had taken a while.

He'd even had to, here and there, 'accidently' drop it a few times into the grass the boy was so devotedly inspecting.

And eventually, Simon had picked it up.

Looked at it.

And Bucky had held out his left hand.

The boy had not met the gaze under the cap, but instead looked only at the hand itself.

 _He doesn't have x-ray vision. He can't see through that glove._

And dropped the penny in.

Bucky had closed his fingers slowly over it, one metal finger at a time.

But kept his hand held up and out.

Opened it.

Closed it.

Opened it.

On the third close, Simon's small hand had reached out.

And now, here they were.

Simon Watson's new favorite game.

He even took the penny home with him now.

"It has to be on a shelf in his room," Amelia'd relayed to Bucky. "One time, it fell on the floor and he couldn't find it and freaked out."

Bucky didn't know what that entailed exactly but as he started to vaguely apologize (again), she'd waved him off.

"No, Bucky, I just meant it's important to him."

Now the victorious Simon held his treasure up for viewing.

Before returning the coin to the open palm.

To begin the game anew.

* * *

 **Holy cow, what great feedback from you all, thank you! :D Also very cool to see you accepting Amelia's outburst as part of a slightly flawed personality. 'Cause, you know, humans ain't perfect.**

 **Nice little fluffy chapter here, giving Simon a bit more time to be Simon. And Bucky with him.**

 **If you feel like you've missed some info, maybe the next chapter will help out with that. And give you a chuckle or two. ;)**

 **The new and improved summary is courtesy of gentle reader, DinahRay, who's basically been a beta for me for this story. And she loves Bucky. Thanks, sweetie!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, OnYourLeft107, tamarabvillar, eileanskye, Ruby Rosetta Red, vajbff, and singbrina for your encouraging reviews and very helpful feedback regarding Amelia's possible POV.**

 **Thanks as well to sevenwise and We're All M-M-Mad Here for adding your support to this story.**


	10. Your Friend

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Your Friend

* * *

"I'm telling you, you're working some real magic there, pulling him away from those grass blades," Amelia commented lightly. "That's usually his favorite thing, since forever."

Bucky smiled, still focusing on the child, and didn't reply.

 _It's just a penny._

But he knew it was more, that it represented more.

That it meant more.

And he was happy.

Still anxious, still overly vigilant.

But more at ease, less on edge.

Around them.

His . . . friends.

A few weeks had passed since the abrupt revelation of his true identity had occurred.

And everything seemed to be back to normal.

For them.

And him.

Actually better than the previous normal.

Now that he wasn't hiding from them, Bucky felt more natural in talking with Amelia.

"What's a blog?"

Not as anxious about mis-stepping and giving himself away.

And easier interacting with the withdrawn Simon . . .

"Hey, pal. How ya doin'?"

. . . though for the most part, it just involved quietly sitting within acceptable distance.

Amelia did not attempt to take anymore pictures of him. In fact she rarely took her phone out at all, a rarity in this new world of people addicted to the rectangles in their hands.

In her apartment, if the laptop was open when he stepped inside, she closed it.

As if she had done her homework on making rogue ex-assassins on the run feel more comfortable and less paranoid.

She did take to calling him Bucky in private which made him smile, Carl when . . .

"Amelia, good morning!"

"Good morning, Ana!"

. . . other people strayed into their small circle of peacefulness.

Ana, for example.

Suddenly there in the park.

Advancing across the grass.

 _HYDRA, HYDRA, not HYDRA._

 _Knife in the boot. Gun underarm._

 _Com piece in the ear._

 _No._

 _But all that metal in her ears could be used to stab._

Tall, blond, and svelte.

Well dressed and make-uped enough she probably didn't spend much time attending to a special needs child.

The two women met with hugs and cheek kisses and cheery Romanian chatterings.

Which Bucky side-eyed . . .

 _Another one. I hope she's not as perceptive as Amelia._

. . . uncomfortably.

As Amelia stepped back, Ana issued a warm welcome to Simon . . .

"Simon, good morning!"

. . . which was promptly and predictably ignored.

And Amelia . . .

"Ana, this is Carl. Carl, Ana."

. . . attempted to keep with polite decorum by introducing the man on the ground . . .

 _Hey, doll._

. . . to her obviously curious friend.

"Nice to meet you, Carl!"

Bucky forced himself to look up, summon a small smile, and voice a reply . . .

"Nice to meet you."

. . . before returning his attention to Simon's new game.

All the while carefully keeping his sleeve pulled far down and his glove pulled far up over his left hand.

And adamantly ignoring the blond's subsequent arched eyebrow and mouthed admiration of his physical form directed to her friend.

Because he simply could not engage any more people unless absolutely necessary.

* * *

"So my friend Ana thinks you're hot."

They were preparing to depart from the park.

"I am hot. I'm sweltering. How could she tell?"

Amelia laughed, her eyes alight. Bucky liked the warm feeling the sound and sight gave him.

It was . . . nice.

"No, I mean she thinks you're attractive."

He drew back a bit.

"Oh."

 _I'm not ready for that._

He was pretty sure he had been a big hit with the ladies back before the war.

Back before he was the Winter Soldier, The Asset.

Back when he was Bucky Barnes.

But he wasn't the Winter Soldier anymore. And he wasn't Bucky Barnes anymore.

He was someone else.

Someone who was pretty sure he wasn't ready, on a number of levels, for all that.

Especially with her.

But if not with her . . .

And he was realizing Amelia had been talking, had stopped, and was now waiting patiently for him to come back to her.

As he refocused, she smiled.

"Want me to back up?"

He returned the smile gratefully.

"Yeah."

He had started apologizing to her for phasing out from time to time.

"Sorry."

"Sorry."

"I'm sorry."

But it had only aggravated her for some reason.

"Bucky, for crying out loud, stop _apologizing_. It's getting on my nerves. Just . . . move on with your life, man. I get it. I don't care."

So against his inclinations, he simply did just that.

 _Move on. Go again._

As Amelia did.

"Anyway. Ana. I thought her attention might be a bit much for you . . ."

Amelia paused, as if determining whether or not to reveal what she had said to a person who didn't know him from a hole in the ground.

. . . so I told her you were gay."

Bucky looked up at her in surprise.

 _Well, I wasn't_ _expecting that._

Amelia shrugged, seeming caught on the spot and embarrassed.

"Well, I had to say _something_ before she pounced you and you throat-kicked her!"

 _Ouch._

His expression must have revealed his hurt at his supposed, albeit understandable, inclination toward self-preservation, because Amelia's expression momentarily switched to suitably penitent.

"Sorry. But I did think she would be too much for you. And besides, I wasn't exactly lying. I don't know if you're gay or not."

Amelia paused again and when Bucky still didn't respond, she continued once more.

"Gay means-"

Bucky quietly interrupted her.

"I know what 'gay' means. "

 _I knew guys in the army who were gay. We just didn't say anything. We were there to fight Nazis, not each other._

"No. You're right, it would have been too much. Thanks."

He was quiet for a moment, then muttered quietly.

"I'm not gay."

Amelia tilted her head and shrugged a little.

"Yeah, I didn't think so."

Bucky really didn't know what to say after that.

Then she grinned sheepishly.

"Only now she _really_ wants to get to know you better."

 _Oh god._

* * *

 **Ana is all of us, just drooling over Bucky.**

 **In case anyone is about to get offended, the gay thing is not saying anything negative about sexual orientation of any kind. It was only said because it was the easiest thing to say to make her friend not come on to him.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, tamarabvillar, Eileen Skye, OnYourLeft107, Ruby Rosetta Red, and brynerose for your reviews! You guys are awesome!**


	11. Just For A Second

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Just For a Second

* * *

He had not slept well in weeks, months.

Years.

Decades.

He was going on pure fumes, steam.

He was exhausted but he could not sleep.

Nightmare images assaulted his brain whenever he closed his eyes.

The still, dead faces of his targets.

Whoever they were, whatever they had done, it didn't matter.

He shouldn't have been the one to kill them, any of them.

He had been a good man once.

So said the information boards in the Steve Rogers/Captain America section of the Smithsonium museum in D.C.

 _That's . . . me._

 _How can that be me?_

 _What am I?_

So said his fractured, scattered memories of a man . . .

 _Come on, girls. They're playing our song._

. . . who no longer truly existed.

And now he was something else.

Someone else.

Somewhere else.

Super serumed super soldiers did not exactly have super hearing. But they could attune their auditory capabilities a bit more than the average person when they wished.

So was Bucky Barnes doing now to Amelia Watson reading a good night story to her quiet son.

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you."

 _I remember this book. I used to listen to my mother read it to my little sister._

Night had fallen and it seemed later than what it really was.

He supposed it was because some people were turning in for the night.

Bucky sat quietly on Amelia's couch. She had said she had wanted to talk to him about something important but not until after Simon went to sleep.

Something about little ears and all.

"Once you are Real, you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

He thought it was quite conscientious of her, considering the boy could not speak.

But she never seemed to treat him as less than fully capable.

As though he might speak at any time.

Though she never showed any negative reaction when he did not.

She was a good mother to her son.

And Bucky liked it here.

The smells. The cozy feel.

It reminded him of home. Or home as he might have remembered it if he could.

He liked the two of them. Their smiles, their acceptance toward each other.

The simple, unwavering love Amelia gave to her son.

He hoped, so strongly, that he would not misstep and hurt them.

They were good people, so much better than he.

And he hoped he did not hurt them.

"He isn't a toy. He's REAL!"

Amelia's voice was light and animated and, at the same time, extremely soothing and relaxing as she read the bedtime tale to the listening Simon.

Bucky thought he could be content to listen to her read indefinitely.

He leaned his head back against the couch with drowsing eyes.

Aimlessly wandering the ceiling.

The plaster in the corner was cracked and flaking.

He thought he might try to patch it tomorrow or the next day.

"Come back and play with me!" called the little Rabbit. "Oh, do come back! I _know_ I am Real!"

 _It must be nice to be real._

To have such belief, such confidence in yourself.

Absolute faith in what you could be.

Amelia had given a really good speech on the night he had confessed his true identity to her.

She sounded like she believed the things she said.

He only wished _he_ could.

" . . .and take them away with me and turn them into Real."

 _Real. Real. I want to be real again . . ._

* * *

He came to slowly.

Slightly disoriented by his unfamiliar surroundings.

Not his apartment, not his couch.

Not his warm, multi-patterned quilt pulled up to his chin.

Bucky Barnes rubbed a clunky hand over his thick face as he lifted his head from the arm of the couch, trying to pull himself together.

It was disconcerting. His vulnerability. He was usually so vigilant.

But here he was, not prepared to be surrounded by the unfamiliar.

Not the aroma of his breakfast or the soft clatter of it being cooked.

Not the sunshine peering in through his newspaper covered windows.

But Amelia's.

All Amelia's.

"How do you like your eggs?"

He shifted his position to find her.

Peering groggily through the book-laden archway and into the small kitchen.

Amelia, in a white v-neck tshirt, blue lounge shorts, and socks.

Hair pulled up and away from her oval face.

Holding aloft a red spatula.

He cleared his throat, trying to think.

"I, uh, don't know. It's so long since I had them."

She shrugged and tossed out a warm, confident wink.

"Scrambled it is. And you'll love 'em!"

He pulled off the quilt, fabric vaguely reminiscent of forts made under long ago dining tables.

 _". . . in, Bucky!"_

 _"Not without the password! And me and Steve aren't telling, are we?"_

 _"Nope."_

Bucky rose, stretching a little.

And feeling more rested and rejuvenated than he could ever remember.

Amelia set a plate on her small eating table.

"There's an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet if you want to brush your teeth."

* * *

After attending to his tolietries, Bucky stared at himself in the mirror.

The dark shadows under his eyes were noticeably diminished.

Some of the hauntedness had left his blue eyes.

He thought he looked as he felt.

Better.

Not great.

But better.

Still . . .

* * *

"I trust you're still old fashion enough not to be offended by bacon."

Bucky smiled a little as he approached.

"I like bacon."

Then he solemned again.

"What happened?"

Amelia set a glass of orange juice in front of his plate.

"You were asleep on the couch when I found you. I guess 'The Velveteen Rabbit' works on little boys _and_ super soldiers."

She grinned. He did not.

"You shouldn't have let me stay," he quietly admonished. "I have terrible dreams. I wake up and . . . I'm back in everything . . . I'm not safe to be around . . ."

She listened carefully, seeming to take this in stride.

Shrugged.

"You didn't make a sound all last night as I far as I know."

He didn't respond. It was true. He had slept, deep and blissfully dreamless, without waking in a panic the entire night.

"Maybe. But I don't want to risk hurting you. Or Simon."

She nodded, sitting down at the table across from him.

"Well, we won't push our luck and make it a habit then."

Then she closed her eyes, effectively cutting off any further arguement.

He sat, unsure of what to do while she remained still and silent for a brief span of seconds.

Then she opened her eyes and smiled sunnily at him.

"Dig in!"

He reached for the napkin, laying it across his lap.

She had laid a knife and fork on either side of his plate and he picked them up.

Feeling once again nostalgic.

The food was good, better than he remembered the morning meal being in the 'before time'.

Cream of Wheat, a staple breakfast for any family of the age.

Now he usually ate piece of fruit. A candy bar. Or nothing at all.

"It's good," he complimented, glancing at her. "Thank you."

Amelia smiled, shrugging.

"Not very health conscious, I know, but sometimes I just need a taste of home. In my home."

For a few minutes, they ate in silence.

Quiet scraping sounds and chewing .

Until the quiet shuffle of feet drew near.

"Good morning, Simon!"

Simon, blue Linus blankie clutched securely in one little fist, climbed up into his mother's lap.

She took his weight easily, snuggling him to her with one arm and kissing the top of his tousled head.

Handing him a piece of crisp bacon to nibble on with the other.

He laid his head on her shoulder as he stared silently at Bucky.

He was learning to read the boy more and more.

And didn't sense any hostility toward him.

Maybe inquisitive. Wondering.

Or maybe nothing at all.

"Hey, Simon," he greeted quietly.

The boy did not respond. Only stretched out his hand.

And offered the Winter Soldier his bacon.

* * *

 **Okay, I'm the writer and Simon offering the Winter Soldier bacon made _me_ mildly hysterical. But I also haven't been sleeping much lately. **

**'The Velveteen Rabbit' was published in 1922. So, yeah.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, BarnesandMiddleEarth, and welcome Guest ('Gravity' is not my story) for your gracious reviews!**

 **Thanks also to Chiharu-angel for adding your support to his story. :)**


	12. Living in the Moment

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Living in the Moment

* * *

Something was nagging at Amelia.

She had seemed pensive after breakfast.

He hadn't asked because he had felt she would talk when she was ready.

And apparently now, she was.

"You've had to run before, right? So they wouldn't catch you?"

Bucky didn't answer for a second. He already had a feeling where this sudden line of questioning was going.

And he didn't want it to.

Simon had gone through his morning cleanliness routine fairly easily (so far as Bucky could tell).

And was now quietly swaying in his swing seat in the sitting area behind them while Amelia reseated herself across from the man with the metal arm.

Who had taken it upon himself, much to Amelia's appreciation, to wash and dry and replace the few morning dishes . . .

 _"You go on now, James, you know your father wouldn't like you doing women's work."_

Shake of the now maned head.

 _I know, Ma. But times have changed. And I kind of like this part._

. . . while she cared for Simon and edited a rough draft on her blog in her room.

Door open so the boy could see his mother as he decompressed with a soothing swing.

And now, here they were.

And Bucky had come too far to lie anymore to her.

"Yeah."

Quiet admission, almost of guilt.

"So it's plausible you'll have to run again, right?"

"Yes."

She nodded mechanically, as if refusing to feel emotion regarding the information she was receiving.

"So hypothetically, one day you could just disappear without a trace?"

Erased from the existence of her life. As if he had never been.

Only memories, nothing more.

"Yes."

"And I would never hear from you? No call, no email, no letter?"

He braced himself against the harsh reality of the situation.

Of the future and of telling her.

"I couldn't afford the chance they would track it. Use your connection with me to hurt you and Simon."

She shook her head as if struggling to believe what she was being told.

"Not even a blank _postcard_?"

He remained impassive, letting her answer her own rhetorical question.

She looked forlorn for a moment.

Despondent, on the verge of being stricken.

Lovely eyes downcast and distant.

Her usually smiling mouth pressed together in a thin line.

Jack. She was thinking of Jack and how he had died over in Afghanistan.

Sent home in a box and a folded flag.

She was thinking of how everybody leaves and nobody stays.

How unfair it was and how there wasn't a damn thing she could do about.

He knew that was what she must be thinking. It was as clear as one of the thought bubbles over her head in the penny comics.

And Bucky knew he'd done wrong by her and her son.

He should never have spoken to her, never formed an attachment.

It would have been better off for her. Her and Simon.

Without his undependable presence making their lives more difficult.

Amelia drew a deep breath and Bucky literally had no idea what was about to happen next.

Would she cry? Beg him for promises he couldn't keep?

Hate him, demand he leave and never return?

Then she pulled her head back up by sheer force of will.

And smiled, seeming to draw herself up with determination.

"Well, you're here _now_ and Simon doesn't have school today. Do you want to come to the Geology Museum with us?"

As always, she could manage.

With or without him.

She was so strong, so resilient.

He had to smile.

"That's sounds nice."

* * *

Bucky Barnes was not comfortable in crowds.

Indoors. With limited escape routes.

And cameras, probing digital eyes everywhere.

Bucharest's Geology Museum in Old Town was not overly crowded, noisy, or even well guarded.

Not like the Steve Rogers/Captain America exhibit in the Smithsonian back right after his breakthrough.

And he, more confused and unstable then than now, had braved that.

So he tried to relax and enjoy the outing.

Simon seemed content perusing the neatly displayed stones and mineral deposits in their glass domes. He wandered silently from one exhibit to the next.

Mother Amelia trailing behind in her jeans and long tail blouse.

And Bucky, trying to fit in, just a normal guy among natural history.

Back before HYDRA, he would have enjoyed this . . .

 _Hey Steve, this one's called a mine flower. Maybe next time we should give these to our dates! 'Hey, doll, waited a whole millineum to grow the best one for you!'"_

. . . or any type of interesting display.

But now nearly all he could think about were survival strategies.

Entering a room, Bucky immediately noted each and every exit route.

"Oh look, Simon, this one's over a million years old."

Identified potential weapons in case of an incursion.

"It says here that Talc is one of the softest rocks . . ."

 _No, I would need something harder than talc._

"See this one, Simon? It's granite and it's one of the hardest rocks."

 _Yeah, that might work._

A wall divide where he could safely stow Amelia and Simon out of the line of fire.

"Hey, what's over here?"

 _I'm gonna bet another rock._

But he really did sort of like it.

* * *

Simon had become tired of the museum in due time. As evidenced by the fact that he wandered off to stare at a blank wall and begin repetitively pulling on his right ear.

Amelia immediately noticed and looked to Bucky.

Speaking casually as if unconcerned by anything at all.

"Well, I think that's enough rocks for now. How about you?"

He nodded agreeably.

"Yeah. It's not like they're going anyplace."

Amelia's eyebrows raised in pleasant surprise.

"Oh, look at you. Being all funny and whatnot. I like it."

Bucky smiled at her.

Then she turned and placed herself in front of Simon.

"Simon, would you like to go home now?"

His eyes moved to the door and back to her.

And they went.

* * *

He was trying to stay low profile, not be noticed in the vast human wash of life.

"Hey baby, hey baby, hey baby . . ."

But some situations,

"baby, baby, baby . . ."

. . . called for a little risk.

"Hey baby . . ."

The threateningly suggestive utterances the man tossed in the direction of Amelia were shockingly revolting to Bucky Barnes.

As was the openly lewd way in which he stared at her modestly covered bosom and rear.

He gritted his teeth, clenched his jaw.

"Just ignore him," Amelia muttered disgustedly. "I always do. He never _does_ anything. Just talks."

Bucky felt his blood boil with rage.

Amelia, on the other hand, held her head high, clasped her son's hand a little tighter.

And ignored the drunken catcaller.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty baby . . ."

Amelia Watson was thinking of the wellbeing of her son.

If she interacted with the man to unforseen, physical consequnces, Simon might be adversely affected.

She was acting on behalf of him.

Bucky Barnes, on the other hand, was relatively unattached in this current life and could do whatever the hell he decided was necessary.

He hung back, pretending to be busying himself with something so as not to alarm Simon any more than possible.

When the pair had reached a minimum safe distance, the man with the metal hand took action.

He jerked the leering drunk by the collar, slamming his back against the rough brick in a brusque, fluid motion.

The heckler lost all his rambling words as he found himself eye-to-eye with the man who had once been the first Winter Soldier.

"Don't speak to her again. Don't look at her," James Buchanan Barnes intoned darkly from deep in his throat. "Leave. Her. _Alone_."

The man nodded in abject fear and was subsequently released. Shoved in the opposite direction of the intended recipient of his hecklings.

His policer turned menacingly with him as well, to make sure he really was on his way.

Cold gaze drilling a hole through the alcohol infused synapses.

And he stumbled away under the murderous stare and clenched fists.

Bucky took a deep breath, releasing his tension. And turned back to find Amelia staring at him fixedly from the steps to her apartment building.

She remained shock still as he approached, only her eyes moving. Locked on his.

He felt self-conscious under the scrutiny of her gaze . . .

 _It's alright, doll. He's gone now._

. . . and didn't quite know what to say.

"Thank you," she managed, her face still a mystery.

He nodded, ghosting a smile as he moved to open the door for her and Simon.

"You better watch it with that superhero stuff," she advised, now not quite meeting his eyes. "Women'll climb you like a tree over a little stunt like that."

His clueless face was priceless and she chuckled and turned away.

"Come on then, Superman. Off to the Fortress of Solitude."

 _Fortress of Solitude. I got that reference._

A small smile escaped his lips and he followed her.

* * *

 **Superman, 1938, whoo hoo!**

 **And Bucky's dad, not a bad guy. Just a man of the age.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, Chiharu-angel, tamarabvillar, bynerose, and Ruby Rosetta Red for your great reviews!**

 **Thanks also to Forever Fanfiction Lover22 for adding your support to this story :)**


	13. Deliverance

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Deliverance

* * *

The daylight hours had become more manageable with Amelia and Simon by his side. And even when he was without them, in a way they were still there.

Night time, however, was a different tale.

He couldn't listen to her read to Simon and be lulled to sleep on her couch every night.

It wasn't safe.

And not his place.

He eventually had to man up and go home. Be independent.

The nightmares that chased him, still plagued him, would always haunt him, were unspeakable.

The faces of his targets, their final moments of pain, confusion, fear. Some of them even rage.

And rare few, happiness, contentment, joy.

That was somehow the worse.

Those who never knew Death was coming for them, aligning His crosshairs perfectly to their temples, their sternums.

If a message needed to be sent to others, his knife coldly drawn across the tender flesh of their throats.

Screams, that was the other thing that haunted his dreams. The screams.

Of pain.

Of terror.

Of fear.

The Winter Soldier had never paid any attention, never cared.

The Winter Soldier was an inhumane killing machine.

Dispassionate, disconnected.

Focused only on the mission at hand.

A part of Bucky, trapped inside, looked on in helpless horror at the atrocities wrought by his own hand.

He remembered them all, the men, women, and children he had killed as the first Winter Soldier.

They haunted him, chased him, cried out their deaths to him.

And he could not escape.

He would attempt to fight his way out of the dream, wake up.

Fight through the suffocation, up out of deep sea pressure holding him under.

And he would. Or he would think he would.

And wake up on his bed. Or the couch.

And feel relief that he had survived, broken free.

But then he would try to sit up, try to speak, try to do anything.

And the movements would be heavy, weighted.

His words slurred, thick in his throat.

And the desperation, anxiety, the deep-seated dread would descend on him like lodestone around his neck.

Pulling him down, wrapped up in tendrils of strangling vines of low grade terror,.

And he would rage, he would fight. Struggle. Thrash.

To no avail.

Stuck in the dream.

Trapped in sleep.

Helpless to escape.

And finally, finally, as his last shred of sanity unraveled, sending him forever screaming over the edge, into the abyss of his mind.

He would awaken.

For real.

Covered in a sheen of sweat.

Gasping for breath.

Mind reeling with thoughts and images that would not be shaken, tossed so easily away.

And he would know sleep was his enemy, his demon, his prison.

And he would stay awake.

Fight sleep, fight rest.

Fight the exhaustion pervading his body.

Fight the horrors trapping, filling his mind.

Strangling his soul.

Because nothing, _nothing_ , was worse than those nightmares he could not escape.

* * *

More than once, he had thought about killing himself. Taking a bullet to the temple and ending it all.

No more soul crushing guilt. No more crippling fear.

No more loneliness, emptiness.

And lost lives.

No more echoing voices in his head. No more dead faces.

Hunched, he had hunched against a bare mattress in an empty, lonely room.

In the dead of night.

When the world went quiet. Too quiet.

So quiet it was like a black hole in which he was the only being in existence.

With nothing and no one to tie him down, hold him to the earth.

No purpose, no meaning.

No reason to go.

And him, dead in the middle of all that yawning emptiness.

All alone in the eternity of empty, vast night.

With the pistol loaded. Trigger cocked.

Cold barrel pressed to his skull.

 _Just pull the trigger. Let the hammer fall. Finish it._

His finger had tightened.

Breath caught, eyes closed.

 _Give me a break, Buck. You're no quitter. And you're no coward._

 _Shut up, Steve._

 _You're better than this._

 _Shut up, Steve._

 _Put the gun down. Get up and pull yourself together._

 _I'm not worth this, Steve._

 _Yes, you are. Get up and keep going._

 _I've done unforgivable things. Terrible things._

 _It wasn't your fault._

 _I can't do this anymore. I can't live like this._

 _The hell you can't. You gonna let HYDRA beat you?_

 _I . . . I don't think I'm strong enough to care anymore._

 _Get your ass up, punk._

 _Jerk._

* * *

"Alarm clock."

Bucky stared at her.

Amelia, bright eyes solemn and compassionate, continued on.

"I had the same problem after Jack died. I couldn't sleep and when I did, I would have terrible dreams I couldn't wake up from."

Her face drew grim and drawn.

"I was afraid the baby would be affected by my psychological state."

She took a deep, shuddering breath and Bucky realized she questioned every day if it was something within her that had caused her son's abnormality.

He was overwhelmed by a desire to reach out, touch her hand, her arm.

Draw her into a comforting embrace.

Not romantic. But something kind.

But he didn't.

The man who had committed brutal atrocities as the Winter Soldier didn't deserve to touch people.

Particularly good people. Like Amelia.

"Anyway," she continued, swiping a nonexistent hair away from her eyes. "I started setting an alarm for specified period of time. An hour, at first. Then later, two or three if it was bedtime. I'd set it and look at it right before closing my eyes."

She smiled, somewhat less wan than before.

"And it worked. My brain knew the alarm was going to go off in that period of time. So I didn't have to worry if I could wake up. Because the alarm would wake me up."

Bucky nodded.

Internal clock.

A normally functioning body and brain instinctually feel the passing of time.

Tell yourself you've got to wake up in a hour and, with enough practice, you will.

An alarm just makes that passing of time more concrete, more real.

"Hang on a second."

A vision of himself dangling from a tree branch, swaying to and fro in the wind drifted through his mind as she popped up from the couch and disappeared into her bedroom.

Returning only moments later with a smooth oval shape in her hands.

"Digital clock. Fresh set of batteries."

And then she showed him how to use it.

* * *

That night, wrapped up in his sleeping bag in the dark, Bucky Barnes stared intently at the green glowing numbers.

 _It's eleven o'clock._

 _I'm going to wake up at midnight._

 _That clock's going to make that shrill noise over and over and I'm going to wake up._

 _If I wake up a minute or two before the alarm, I can even shut it off before the annoying beeping sound starts._

 _It's going to work._

 _I'm going to sleep._

 _And it's going to be okay._

 _Even if I have a nightmare, the alarm will go off and I will wake up._

* * *

Three days later, she smiled at him as he approached their spot in the Cismigiu.

"What's this?"

He stood not entirely awkwardly, holding a small bunch of flowers.

Daisies. White velvety petals. Soft yellow centers.

She raised her gaze from the flowers to his eyes.

Noticed the haunt in him was diminishing. Just a little more.

And the small smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Amelia grinned.

"It worked, didn't it? You woke up right."

The gratitude emanating from his soul was clear and pure.

As he nodded.

"Not all the time, but better."

And held out the flowers.

She took them. Inhaled their aroma with appreciative sincerity.

Bucky Barnes stuffed his hands deep in his jeans pockets.

"Thank you, Amelia."

"You're welcome, Bucky."

* * *

 **Okay, the dream problem is mine (sans Winter Soldier issues) as well as the alarm clock solution. And boy, yeah, it's as bad as described. Didn't even have to dramatize.**

 **Dark inspiration for the suicidal thoughts (not mine, I'm clear; Bucky's)? '45' by Shinedown. Check it out or at the very least, the lyrics. Once again, very post Winter Soldier Bucky.**

 **Anyway, on the brighter side, grateful thanks to brigid1318, eileanskye, Sassiebone, Ruby Rosetta Red, cairistona7, brynerose, and tamarabvillar for your reviews!**

 **And happy 4th of July tomorrow for you celebrators and happy Tuesday to everyone else! :D**

 **Next up, Bucky's not the only one with sleeping issues. But maybe he can reach out beyond his trauma camel self to help . . .**


	14. Moral Support

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Moral Support

* * *

Screaming, screaming, the boy was screaming.

A pitiful shrieking that filled the apartment, echoing and reverberating off the walls.

Amelia had her arms around him, trying to calm and soothe him.

As he, completely out of control, scratched and clawed at her

And Bucky just removed out of the doorway, two steps below the threshold.

They had been sitting on the couch . . .

"Bucky, I have something I want to talk with you about."

. . . in the early evening.

Perhaps an hour after Simon had lain down.

And without warning, screeching had shattered the quiet.

" _Rahat_!" she'd expelled the Romanian curse under her breath.

Ripping the elastic band from off her wrist and with a deft movement, twisting up her hair into a messy, out of the way knot.

As she'd leapt off the couch and ran up the short set of steps to Simon's room, stopping at the top.

Opening the door and easing in carefully.

Bucky, a shadow behind, wary for signs of an attack, an intrusion.

Finding only the boy.

Standing in his pajamas.

Face screwed up in misery, eyes slits, mouth pulled down in an open grimace.

His arms rigid at his sides, hands opening and closing like souls grasping for purchase.

Amelia'd flipped on dim lamplight, folded to the floor in front of him and embraced him.

He'd fought her, not her, but whatever was inside of him that she was trying to save him from.

Bucky had been at a loss.

It had seemed a private thing, this scene, something he shouldn't be privy to.

A boy in so much unexplainable misery.

And his mother, unable to stop it.

He'd wavered for a moment.

Then knelt down, braced against the wall and the steps.

Out of the way. But available upon request.

Moral support, he'd guessed.

Though he knew he was pretty worthless to be of any real help.

"You might want to go," Amelia now called to him without looking. "This isn't usually pretty."

Bucky watched her struggle with the boy.

He couldn't calm him. He couldn't help.

But he didn't want to just go.

A fair weather friend disappearing at the first drop of rain.

"I'll stay if it's okay."

Amelia didn't respond, barely gave him a glance.

The child continued to wail and thrash.

His mother, her face an impassive brick wall, held on to him with all of her strength and love.

And her son, he clung to her, little fingers digging and clawing.

As he wailed into her neck, repeatedly butting her collarbone with his forehead.

Bucky thought the boy might be hurting her but she never winced, never pushed him away.

Long minutes crawled by before Bucky realized Simon's cries were finally beginning to diminish.

His outward distress calming.

Amelia's eyes were closed, her cheek against her son's tousled, damp hair.

Gently rocking him.

A barely audible, calming, tonal surresh emanating from her parted lips.

Bucky thought the heart-rending ordeal might finally be coming to an end for the boy.

And his mother.

And slowly, quietly, rose from his perch.

* * *

"Bucky. Thank you."

Her strained face eased into a touch of relief as she descended the short set of half stairs.

Toward Bucky Barnes.

Standing in her small kitchen, placing a steaming cup on striped placemat she always had laid out to protect the table.

Tea.

Chamomile.

Hot and fairly steeped.

He had seen her make it . . .

"It's been a long day, Bucky."

. . . here and there and thought if any day counted as a long day, this would be the one.

At least that he had witnessed so far.

She fairly collapsed into the chair, wrapping her hands gratefully around the mug.

As she sat and sipped, he sat down across from her, giving her time to set herself in order.

When she was ready, she spoke.

Quietly. Voice flat and without emotion.

As if she had none left.

"He usually does that about once a week or so. Sometimes I can figure out why. Sometimes . . ."

Her voice trailed off.

She smiled wanly at nothing and resumed sipping her tea.

Bucky's gaze traveled her disheveled hair, still twisted up.

Along her neck.

And to the thin red lines of blood scratched across her collarbone.

"You're bleeding."

He spoke the words mildly as she surely didn't need anymore loud sounds or sudden movements after Simon's outburst.

She glanced down indifferently.

"Oh. I guess he got me."

Bucky rose and reached for the white plastic box labeled '1st Aid' and set it on the counter.

Opened the lid.

And stared at the myriad of things he didn't know what to do with.

"Neosporin'll do it," she advised.

He found the small orange and white tube and laid it on the counter along with some cleansing cloths.

"I'll take care of it," Amelia muttered, staring blankly out the window next to her. "Just give me a minute."

He turned the smooth plastic over and began reading the directions.

"Bucky."

Unscrewed the top.

"Bucky."

And was gently reprimanded.

"Bucky, I can do it myself. It's not a big deal. I'm used to it."

He looked at her and shrugged.

"Yeah, but here's the thing. You don't have to. I'm here. "

Amelia tore her gaze away from the window now and stared at him.

A little steel came into her eyes then.

Her mouth worked like she was trying to decide whether or not to speak.

And finally she did. With the slightest of metallic tinges to the syllables.

"But you won't always be, will you?"

She knew. She knew she couldn't depend on him indefinitely.

They had discussed this before and he had tried to lure himself into thinking that the matter had been put to bed.

But here it was again. Creeping back in.

His presence here in their lives was dangerous at worst.

Sadly temporary at best.

And to become accustomed to that false dependibility would only cause her grief later.

Her words hurt him a little though the cold strategist inside him knew she was being smart to be realistic.

No, one day, inevitably, he would have to run again. To protect himself.

To protect her.

To protect Simon.

And then he would be gone.

Bucky Barnes wanted to crawl under the floor.

Hide.

And mentally flay himself for his worthlessness all over again.

Instead, he took his own deep breath.

And chose to be the man he could be while he was present and able.

And looked her square in the eye.

"No. But I'm here _now_."

She held his gaze for a long while, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

At least several eons.

And then she relented.

"Okay."

And let him cleanse her shallow physical wounds.

With a soft, damp towel.

The Neosporin.

And strong flesh and metal hands with a gentle touch.

"Thank you, Bucky."

"You're welcome, Amelia."

* * *

 **Bittersweetness here for our friends, huh? Yeah, that's just the way it is sometimes.**

 **Speaking of kindness and time taken, thanks to brigid1318, Sassiebone, Ruby Rosetta Red, brynerose, cairistona7, and tamarabvillar for your gracious reviews!**

 **Thanks also to Pinkypop22 and AnimeDJ for adding your support to this story.**

 **Which, by the way, needs a good balance of light and darkness . . .**


	15. Condensation Picasso

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

Condensation Picasso and Everybody's Got an Opinion

* * *

It was a rainy, cold day.

A day for quiet reads and snuggly blankets.

A day for impromptu naps and afternoon boardgames.

Maybe even a well chosen popcorn movie. Complete with popcorn.

And a day for, in Amelia Watson's opinion, hot chocolate.

From scratch.

Made with love.

Slow melted and bubbling over a hot stove.

Simon sat at the kitchen window, watching the rain drizzle down the fogged glass.

The park was out there in the chilling wet.

Unattainable and so far away.

And it was obvious that the still, quiet boy was discontent with that fact.

Bucky sat across from him, allowing the warm feeling that seemed to warily pervade his being anytime he resided in this dwelling to wash quietly over him.

He glanced at the morose, withdrawn child and followed his eyes to the window and back.

On several occasions, he had attempted to reach out to the boy through many a child's favorite pasttime.

Foggy window art.

He would start a picture.

Mostly a smiley face.

Perhaps a dog.

Once a tree.

All to no avail.

Simon would either take no notice of the man or his stick drawings.

Or he would look but not respond in any way.

But Bucky Barnes was a patient man who knew how to be still and wait.

And now, with the smell of warm chocolate wafting through the air, he decided to try again.

He removed the glove from his right hand.

And touched the glass near to the boy.

Dot. Dot. Upturned curve.

A smiley face.

Then he returned his hand to the tabletop.

And waited.

Silently, the boy looked to the drawn glass.

And raised his own hand.

Small descending, ascending loop under and attached to the upturned curve.

A tongue.

Hand returned to lap.

Bucky smiled.

Raised a hand.

Enclosing circle.

Completed head.

Three slightly curved lines sticking up from the top of the head at different angles.

Wayward tufts of hair.

Simon again.

Curvy loops on either side of the circle head.

Ears.

Back to Mr. Barnes.

Straight line down.

Two attached diagonal lines angling up.

Two attached diagonal lines angling down.

Stick body.

Arms and legs.

And the boy.

Ovals attached to the bottom, comically large on the dripping window.

Mickey Mouse balloon shoes.

And, to complete the masterpiece, the man once known as the Winter Soldier drew a thought bubble and one word within.

 _Hi._

The boy turned from the window and looked into the blue eyes of the now long haired James Buchanan Barnes.

And smiled.

Bucky felt rather than heard the wave of emotions flowing out from the woman forgetting to stir the hot chocolate on the stove.

He had never seen her smile brighter even as tears shined in her eyes.

That she refused to wipe away as she poured the homemade hot chocolate into waiting cups.

She put the cups down on the placemats to protect the table.

"Thank you, Amelia."

"You're welcome, Bucky."

She glanced at the window and her smile widened.

Bucky turned and looked.

Though the condensation was starting to run and obscure the original artwork, it was clear Simon had added a tree and sun to their masterpiece.

And the hot chocolate was delicious.

* * *

"You are smiling today."

The comment was casual, spoken in quiet Romanian by his landlord.

A man in his late forties who only charged tenants rent in barely adequate housing because he too must needs put food in the mouths of his family and a mostly leak-proof roof over their heads.

Bucky didn't respond.

"Your eyes," the man clarified. "They smile."

Bucky shifted the errant board, feining human strength from his left side as he always did around civilians who weren't attempting to kill or capture him.

"A woman?"

Bucky concentrated on the task at hand, stabilizing the support beam of the lower basement.

"Man?"

As stoic as he was, he could not resist tossing a look of derision at his mustached compatriot.

 _Why do people keep asking that?_

The man shrugged, seemingly unconcerned either way.

"Whatever has your eyes smiling, it should be appreciated. Nice change."

Bucky took this sideways compliment with equanimity, thinking Amelia would have already thrown a dish towel in his general direction.

The man patted the support beam approvingly.

"Yes. This will do well."

Bucky nodded, stepped away, and began to take his quiet leave.

"You come to evening meal," Mihai offered, not for the first time. "Mariana makes delicious ciorba. Perfect sour."

Bucky cast about for a suitable excuse and found none.

Until the older man, with a twinkle in his dark eye, contrived one for him.

"The woman of the smile perhaps would hope to have flowers or a poem of her loveliness?" questioned the older gentleman, now pointedly winking.

Bucky Barnes, former Winter Soldier, former former ladies' man, shook his head in embarrassment.

 _Roses are red_

 _Violets are blue_

 _I'm not the Winter Soldier._

 _I won't kill you._

"We're not cour- dating," he amended, wondering how he was going to escape both HYDRA and the present conversation.

Mihai with his salt and pepper hair looked baffled.

"Why not?"

 _Because I'm a murderer_.

". . ."

* * *

The ciorba was perfect sour. And delicious.

As much as he could tell.

"So, tell us. Why do you not pursue this young lady?"

Bucky Barnes still had no answer, only worked his jaw, casting his eyes about in fruitless attempt to find a decent explanation written on their plain white walls.

The man and wife eyed each other knowingly. And then the older man nodded sagely.

"See, no reason not to."

Bucky took a deep, barely concealed breath of muted frustration, stuck.

Mihai, on something of a roll, raised his bushy eyebrows.

"She is married, attached in some way?"

The former Winter Soldier couldn't stop the bulleted line of questioning with his metal hand.

"No . . . widowed . . ."

The man nodded.

"Children?"

Bucky wondered how he had gotten from being a merciless agent of HYDRA to trapped at a worn little eating table with two older smiling Romanians holding him in interrogation.

"Yes . . . she has a seven year old son-"

Mariana's friendly, round face smiled.

"Ah, very good. No diapers!"

Bucky snorted a laugh, he couldn't help it.

 _There's supposed to be ones now that you just throw away? What my mother would have given for that._

"So, what is the problem?" they pressed, tag teaming the statements. "We know she is beautiful because of the way she makes you smile. She has no husband, she is a good woman, yes?"

Bucky hesitated, then nodded.

Amelia was.

"So why do you not care for her?"

 _I do. I really do. I just . . ._

"I . . . can't."

Their puzzled looks followed him . . .

"Thank you for the food. It was delicious."

. . . as he finally fled.

* * *

 **Just a fun little chapter here to prove life just goes right along. Even for Bucky Barnes ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, queengeek1, and Ruby Rosetta Red for your supportive reviews!**

 **Thanks also to hgwebber27 for adding your support to this story!**

 **You know, sometimes you just gotta take a step back from everything . . .**


	16. Everything and Nothing

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Everything and Nothing

* * *

There were less stars than he thought he remembered. Or maybe just more electric lights.

All the same, they were beautiful.

The stars. Silent. Twinkling.

Bucky Barnes stared up at them, thinking of nothing.

And everything.

He thought he remembered doing this. Watching the stars.

Back before the war.

Back when he had been just a man. A young man. With his entire life before him.

Unafraid of space satellites and probing eyes and covert government agencies.

Sneaking up onto the roof of their apartment building late at night.

Laying on his back, having a smoke. Gazing up at the stars.

Or escorting an adventurous and willing evening companion up to share those same stars in a much more private setting.

More maybe if she were particularly adventurous.

Nowadays, cigarettes were absurdly expensive.

And he wasn't in any position to have any romantic interludes with any female companions of any kind.

The Winter Soldier was still too close, too much of a threat.

As were the ones that he knew had to be quietly, desperately, furiously searching for him.

Unless of course, they assumed he had died in the crash.

Except for the obvious lack of evidence.

Namely, his mangled, metal armed corpse.

And the unconscious Steve Rogers, aka Captain America, jeez, how he had mercilessly teased Steve for _that_ moniker.

 _The_ entire _country, wow, really . . ._

And the getup.

 _But you're keeping the outfit, right?_

Clearly hadn't dragged himself ashore.

He remembered staring at the man in the dark blue battlegear. The man he had just dragged from the depths of the river.

Right after beating him nearly to death.

The Winter Soldier, The Asset.

Inhuman. Mechanical. Emotionless.

Having just suffered a complete emotional break. In response to one simple statement.

"I'm with you til the end of the line."

Confused. In pain. Out of focus.

Unable to understand, to complete his next action, his next step.

Except . . .

 _Don't let him die._

One clear directive.

Not placed by HYDRA. Not placed by anybody.

And being completely at a loss because of it.

Staring at the man. Unconscious. Drooling river water.

 _Don't let him die._

Then seeing the coughing, the eye tremors.

Seeing he was alive.

 _Okay. He's alive. Okay._

And still not knowing what to do.

 _Kill._

 _No._

 _Kill._

 _No._

 _Mission directive: Kill._

 _Mission override._

Turning away.

And an errant thought . . .

 _Don't do anything stupid until I get back._

. . . flowing through his mind . . .

 _Why did I think that?_

. . . so fluidly, he almost didn't notice it.

Like it was a part of him.

A part of . . . not the Winter Soldier, The Asset. The right hand of HYDRA.

But a part of some other part of him.

He couldn't quite make out through the fog obscuring any clear thought but the mission directive.

 _Kill Steve Rogers. Protect HYDRA._

 _No._

 _Kill Steve Rogers._

 _Unable to comply._

He had walked away, stumbled, free and scared and confused.

And knowing they were still out there. Always knowing it.

So he never could feel free.

He could never feel truly safe.

Because he didn't want to take the chance to hurt or endanger anyone.

Amelia's open, smiling face rose in his mind causing the corner of his mouth to twitch up in a more pleasant expression as he aimlessly continued to search the stars.

That warm sensation flowed through him again, dulling the ever present fear.

Anxiety.

Misguided feeling of wrong at breaking the programmed mission directive of HYDRA.

Amelia and Simon didn't take those sick feelings away.

But they did help him reinforce his own intentional reprogramming against HYDRA's.

It was a long, painfully slow process, one that would probably never truly be completed.

But they made the fight easier.

He still worried about them. Her and Simon.

His direct connection to them posed a very real danger to them, there was no way around that.

It was a fact.

If someone found him, they found them. They could be used against him.

As leverage. As ransom. As retribution.

He lived with that cold hard fact every single day of the past several months.

But still he gravitated toward them.

Her gentle (most of the time) nature. Her positivity.

And the boy Simon.

Bucky felt a kinship with him, felt achievement in the quiet acceptance of the child toward him.

They made him feel . . . better.

And he wanted to feel better.

He wanted to take the shards of the man he once was, made jagged by the man he had been.

And make someone he could live with being.

He raised his flesh hand.

That under the mission directive of HYDRA . . .

 _No witness. No survivors._

. . . had choked, strangled the life out of Maria Stark's gasping throat. Until she was limp and dead.

 _I remember all of them. I will always remember all of them._

 _Never again._

And rubbed his eyes with his other hand instead, feeling the alien metal that was forever a part of him now.

Hearing the click and whir and near constant hum of the interlocking parts moving independently yet in perfect cohesion.

He didn't want to hurt anyone else.

Ever.

He wanted to feel safe in the world.

But he did not.

He could not.

He was hunted, he would always be hunted.

By the faceless shadows of men of secret government organizations. Of HYDRA.

He could never live the life of a normal man.

Normal men didn't have metal arms designed and trained for murder. Normal men didn't have programming hardwired into their synapses, turning them into killing machines.

Unable to fight back. Unable to choose for themselves.

He had to live forever under the radar, without permanency, without connections.

It wasn't much of a life but it was all he had.

And he had been, if not living well, at least surviving.

And had determined that was all he could hope for, the best he could expect.

And then he had become addicted to the breath of life-giving air that were Amelia and Simon Watson.

They didn't expect him to be like the James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes of the past.

That man, at least that man as a whole, was gone.

Torn apart by HYDRA. And the things HYDRA had made him do.

They didn't treat him like the deadly Winter Soldier.

Feared. Restrained. Reviled. Used.

They treated him like . . . him.

Whatever him was now.

They, Amelia at least, laughed with him. Smiled with him.

They also let him be quiet when he was quiet. Morose when he was morose.

Well, sort of.

He grinned a little again, just a little.

Amelia set a timer, an old kitchen crank timer. Said he could pout if he wanted.

Talk and she would listen.

Gave him five, ten, or sometimes as long as fifteen minutes if he was really heavy on it.

Let him go, listening and caring and supportive.

When the timer went off, time was up.

And he was to get up off his ass and redirect himself otherwise.

Something more positive, more proactive.

He hadn't told her, felt a little sheepish about it.

But he had purchased a similar timer and had taken to doing the same thing in his hideaway apartment himself.

It was easier with Amelia obviously.

But he was learning to manage it himself alone as well.

Alone.

The only true, realistic answer.

The one he hated almost as much as being captured, put under again, and twisted into the Winter Soldier.

Alone.

Bucky Barnes took a deep breath in through his nose and blew it out in a burst now through his mouth.

 _I'm being morose again._

And he was pretty sure he was nearing or had already passed the fifteen minute mark.

Amelia's timer would be buzzing, that annoying, inisistent rattle against whatever it rested upon..

Bucky closed his eyes.

Squeezed them shut tight.

Then opened them up again.

The stars were still there.

And so was he.

And so were they, his friends.

So that was something at least.

* * *

 **Well, that was alot to absorb, I guess. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, Sassiebone, brynerose, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, and thanks to guest.**

 **Thanks also to Sora Yumiko, Altercation, and perfectofiction for adding your support to this story!**

 **You know, life doesn't always go according to plan, does it? I mean, my life certainly doesn't and I'm not even a part of the MCU. Soooo . . .**


	17. The End of Plums

I do not own Captain American anything.

But the digital copies are all mine. Mine, I say!

I Am Machine

The End of Plums

* * *

"Do you know me?"

"Yeah, you're Steve. I read about you in a museum."

* * *

"This doesn't have to end in a fight, Buck."

"It always ends in a fight."

* * *

"What did I do?"

"Enough."

"Oh god. I knew it. Everything HYDRA put inside me's still there."

* * *

"I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve."

"What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice."

"I know. But I did it."

* * *

"Do you even _remember_ them?!"

"I remember all of them."

* * *

"Captain Rogers."

"Your Highness."

"I have Zemo. He must be remanded to the proper authorities in order to exonerate Sargeant Barnes."

"I couldn't agree more."

* * *

"Is this what you really want to do, Buck?"

"Be frozen and miss you being stupid? No. But I think it's what's safest."

"Can't talk you out of it, can I?"

"No. But there's something I have to do first."

* * *

"Bucky!"

She threw herself at him with complete abandon for the first time in their too short friendship, hugging him tightly. A surge of relief and joy blossoming over her face.

It only lasted a second before she registered the lack of left arm and drew back, alarmed.

Took in his bruised, battered face.

"Oh my god, what . . ."

* * *

She was pale and overwhelmed by the time he finished the story.

Tea cup cooling between her limp hands.

The dark night seemed to press against the window more heavily now more than ever.

"Everything HYDRA put inside me is still there, Amelia. I can't trust my own mind. I'm not safe."

She didn't respond, just sat slumped across from him.

"Until they can figure out a way to get it out of me, going back under is the safest thing for everybody."

She clenched her jaw, lowered her eyes. Turned the cup with its undrunk liquid around and around with trembling fingers.

And spoke with a quiet, desperate intensity.

"I can't change your mind, can I? Tell you what a good man you are, how far you've come since you escaped? Suggest just destroying the book and the compound and everything in it? Tell you nobody else knows the words and you can move on with your life?!"

Her argument was valid, and relatively sound. He wanted to believe in it.

But he just couldn't take the chance of living with what he was.

There could be multiple copies of the book, the words, the film footage. More operatives in hiding.

There could be any number of anomalies he wasn't willing to chance.

So his response also was quiet. And resolute.

"I have to do this. This is my choice."

The beautiful, strong woman who cared didn't reply, only got up to dump the remains of the now tepid liquid down the sink.

Set down the cup and hung her head.

Edges of the stainless steel sink gripped so tightly the tension stood out on her arms.

He rose, thinking for all the anguish he was causing her, he couldn't have borne the guilt of just disappearing forever with no explanation at all.

She deserved better than that.

And she deserved better than him.

Then she lifted her head and turned back to him, lovely eyes red-rimmed and overly bright.

"I'm sorry, Amelia."

Her head dipped a little as she shook it, frowning, eyes closed. A small crease forming between naturally delicate eyebrows.

Then she opened her eyes again and looked straight at him.

"Don't be, Bucky. It hurts but it's normal. It's natural. It's a human response."

He gazed at her, thinking once more how beautiful and strong she was.

"I know."

She shook her head again, eyes fierce even in their grief.

"No, you don't. Listen. I'm _human_. I have emotions and reactions. And no matter what they did to you or what you _think_ you are now, you're still human too."

She moved forward suddenly, reached up, and with strong, gentle hands cradling his bearded face, lightly kissed him.

He remained still for a second before hesitantly allowing himself to return contact.

Reaching his remaining arm to her back, pulling her closer in a light embrace.

His systems started to react as he registered the warm, inviting press of her body, the lingering taste of tea on her soft lips.

Then she broke contact.

He let her go as she moved back, gently patting his cheek and throating some utterance, slightly amused yet kind.

"See? Human."

She smiled then. Sort of a bittersweet smile that twisted his stomach into knots.

Still, he spent another brief lifetime gazing at her. Indulging thoughts of all the ways he wished things could be different between them.

And hated what he had to say next.

"I have to go, Amelia."

His voice was deep and husky with staunchly refused tears.

She drew a shaky breath and let it out slowly.

"I know, Bucky. Thank you for coming back to say goodbye."

It was more than he could have hoped for, her quiet, accepting resignation in the face of stark abandonment and emotional pain.

He turned.

And saw Simon standing silently at the bottom of the stairs to his room.

Eyes fixed on James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky didn't know how much the boy would understand or if the new development would throw him into a tantrum.

But he did know he owed him some respect.

"Hey, pal," he greeted gently, crouching down. "I was just saying bye to your mom."

The boy's eyes shifted from man to woman and back again.

"I gotta go and I don't know when I'll be back."

The child could have been a statue.

"You take good care of her, okay? She's a special lady."

Bucky stopped, feeling everything he had said was poorly insufficient for what these people had done for him.

Simon stepped forward then. Slowly. Steadily.

Toward the man who had once been the Winter Soldier.

When he got within arm's reach of him, he stopped.

And raised a small, closed fist.

And waited.

Bucky smiled. Reached up with his right hand.

And gently prised the little fingers open.

To reveal a penny. 1917.

He smiled. And closed the hand back up.

"You too, Simon."

Then he rose as Amelia approached them, tousling her son's hair before lifting him and hugging him to her.

He let her, wrapping his thin arms around her neck, small hand still clutching Bucky Barnes' special penny.

Then she locked her gaze with the man who was leaving.

"You're a good man, Bucky. Because you chose to be. Remember that."

He stared at her, thoughts swirling through his mind.

"Thank you, Amelia. For everything."

 _I'm sorry._

She smiled again, eyes liquid and luminous.

And nodded.

"Go," she said quietly but firmly.

And turned to take her son back to bed so he would not have to watch the good man leave.

Bucky alone stood for a moment.

Wishing he could stay. Wishing alot of impossible things.

Then he let himself out, quietly shutting the door behind him.

* * *

"You okay, Buck?"

"No, not really. Let's go."

"Who was she?"

"Someone who deserved someone who could stay."

"You could, you know. You're exonerated. A free man."

"No. It's not safe. This is the best option."

"I'm sorry, pal."

"Yeah, me too."

* * *

 **Well, that came out of nowhere, right?**

 **Which makes sense because there Bucky was, just trying to buy some plums . . .**

 **So now we're all caught up with meat popsicle (dangit!) Bucky.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, BarnesandMiddleEarth, and DinahRay for so graciously reviewing so much!**

 **Thanks also to NoVacancyMind and LadyArwen (I got that reference) 2468 for adding your support to this story!**

 **I'd like to explore Amelia's side of things now. I think her headspace might be interesting 'cause most people have more going on under the surface than they let on, right?**

 **And we get to look at Bucky from an entirely different (ahem, female, ahem) perspective.**

 **So that will be starting in the next chapter.**

 **If you're interested. If not, I understand. :)**


	18. The Beginning, Again

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

The Beginning, Again

* * *

Amelia Watson had many loves.

She loved the color blue.

She loved her son.

She loved good covrigi.

And she loved the Cismigiu.

She and Simon relaxed there every Thursday afternoon, weather permitting.

Amelia liked to watch the boats drift down the man-made lake.

She liked to watch the people as they walked along the paths, over the intricately carves wooden bridge.

Together with friends, lovers, family, business partners.

Alone.

Wonder where they were going, what they were talking about.

Who they were.

Simon liked to watch the grass blades.

She wasn't sure what exactly about them he found so fascinating. Maybe it was their symmetry, the similarity yet individuality they held to each other.

Maybe it was the teaming insects and natural, unrestrained life among the blades.

Maybe he just really liked the color green.

She didn't know and he didn't tell her.

He didn't tell her anything.

Not with his words anyway.

But if she paid attention and was patient, he told her some in other ways.

When he was overstimulated, he repetitively tugged on his left ear.

When he was thirsty, he licked his lips.

When he was uncomfortable or afraid, he drew away from the object of his discontent.

So there were many things he did tell her in his own way.

And many things he did not.

He never thanked her for the food she gave him or the toys he played with.

He never asked her why the sky was blue or why dogs chased their own tails.

He never told her his favorite Power Ranger or what made him scream in the middle of the night.

And he never told her he loved her.

Simon was her only child. He was seven now.

He had brown hair and hazel eyes.

And was a mute autistic.

And she loved him.

Life was not always perfect or easy being the mother of Simon Watson.

And Amelia didn't ask for it to be.

There were days, few and far between now, when anything and everything seemed to throw him into a miserable rage.

Days when his shrieks rebounded off the walls of their suddenly too small apartment until she thought she would go deaf.

Days when he screamed and tantrumed until she was pretty sure he had worked himself into a migraine and eventually had to be put to bed.

Nights when she cried herself to sleep, the tension in her neck and shoulders almost unbearable.

Nights when she wondered how she was going to get up the next morning and face another day.

But Amelia Watson was tough.

She had made herself tough for the sake of her son.

And her own sanity.

She was loner with a few 'real life' friends, distant family, and a strong, supportive online community of similarly minded parents of autistics.

Amelia Watson was making it.

 _Quite well most of the time, thank you very much, Mom._

She had Simon in a school that was gear, she had her blog, and her freelance website design.

She had a decent apartment that her uncle had paid off years ago.

And she had her belief. Her faith.

That there was a reason for her life.

Maybe not a high and mighty reason, but a reason.

Whatever happened, it was her responsibility to make the best with what she had and be a good part of the corner of the world she was in.

Big thoughts, lofty ideals.

And a lot of patience, resilience, and good old fashion stubbornness.

She figured it came with age and life experience.

She was thirty-three now though she looked younger.

Paleo helped, she guessed.

Clean eating and being int focused on life outside herself had contributed to her losing fifteen pounds since moving to Romania.

That and all the walking.

She'd sold her sporty SUV before leaving the States, knowing she was moving to a well populated European city with plenty of sidewalks and public transportation.

She hadn't been trying to lose weight, the change of lifestyle had done it for her.

She wasn't model thin and that was okay because models always seemed too hungry looking for her taste.

But she had read clean eating helped balance the body's hormones, calming some of the more extreme emotional responses of autistics.

And after the initial where the _hell's my damn refined sugar_ adjustment period, found she actually felt better.

And that Simon, whom she had done it for in the first place, felt better too.

Her life consisted mainly of Simon.

She didn't really date.

Most men fled rather quickly at the sight of a child, especially a child with special needs.

Those that considered staying tended to ignore Simon altogether which seriously pissed her off.

Or they tried to force him to engage on their terms, operate on their level, which proved disasterous.

Or, on rare occasions, they had much more sinster notions in mind.

She just didn't see much point in men for sport.

And she didn't have any romantic interest in women.

So she didn't worry about dating too much.

She was just fine on her own. Now.

She had been married for four years, back when she was much younger.

She had loved Jack deeply, though for a time she had hated him just as deeply for stupidly getting himself killed and abandoning her pregnant self alone in this world.

Irrationally hated him all over again later for not being there to help her manage an out of control autistic child and an overbearing mother.

And now she just missed him.

His smile, his kindness, his jokes.

The way he had always thought she was sexy even when she looked like grim death before her morning coffee.

But even those things were becoming a fading memory after seven long years.

She was different now. Her life was different.

And though it was not the life she had expected or asked for, she was grateful to be alive, have her son with her, and have the opportunity to be a general part of the world around her.

Here in the Cismigiu, for example.

The old couple walking in hand so slowly they seemed to be in their own slow motion as other pedestrians milled around them.

The lady with her dog, a giant Bull Mastiff. That despite its size, Amelia just bet was the gentlest thing on planet Earth.

The teenage girl emo-ed out with piercings and dark clothing and ink-black dyed hair.

The guy with the shoulder length dark hair, hiding under his ballcap, shoulders hunched against the warming rays of the sun.

Concentrating on the pavement at his feet, as if asking it to hide him from the rest of the world.

 _Boy, he sure looks hot in all those clothes. I'd be melting._

* * *

She saw him here and there.

When one lived a structured life, as she did to help Simon circumnavigate the world into which he had been flung, some people untentionally become part of that routine.

Like the broad faced man who sold her covrigi.

The grandmother on the bench feeding the pigeons.

The teenage boy in her apartment building that thought she didn't see him sneaking smokes in the stairwell.

And the guy in the Cismigiu hiding under his ballcap.

The one who looked lost and alone and afraid when he thought no one could see him.

* * *

 **So here's our introduction to Amelia Watson. There won't always be so much exposition but this time it's what came out of my brain.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, BarnesandMiddleEarth, OnYourLeft107, Sassiebone, eil** **eanskye, and EvenWhenIHadNothing1917 (I got that reference) for your wonderful reviews!**

 **Thanks also to IAmJacksCompleteLackofSurprise (I got that reference too!) for adding your support to this story.**

 **Next up, let's get this friendship started!**


	19. Well Hello Whoever You Are

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Well, Hello . . . Whoever You Are

* * *

If he were anymore cagey, she would have mistaken him for a restless panther in a zoo.

The ambulance had just blared by, weaving in and out of the congested city traffic.

Simon had scrunched up against her, deathgrip on her hand, disturbed by the noise.

But he wasn't freaking out yet so she remained hopeful he would maintain through this one.

And the guy . . .

"Every time, huh?"

. . . looked like he was about to come out of his skin himself.

It was subtle, his activated fight or flight response.

He was maintaining pretty well. To the untrained non-autistic mother's eye.

But Amelia was observant out of practice and necessity.

So she noticed.

Flaring nostrils, eyes darting here and there under his cap.

Scruffy jaw rigid.

Gloved hands clenched tight, breath strained and constricted.

She wondered then if he were somewhat like Simon.

Oversensitized to a loud and overly abrasive (for him) environment.

 _I bet you hate emergency test sirens too._

Or, more likely, . . .

 _A soldier. Maybe he's an ex-soldier with PTSD or something._

And she wondered if he wore all those unnecessary layers to hide some sort of scars he didn't want anyone staring at.

Then he glanced down at her and she saw . . .

 _Whoa_.

. . . the brightest set of sky blue eyes she had ever seen.

Hooded in a grim face etched with worry and tension and exhaustion.

"Mmm."

He sort of grunted at her and she realized she was making his upset worse . . .

 _Oh damn, he's gonna come apart right here on the street._

. . . by rambling.

She considered simply leaving, skirting Simon on home.

But she didn't.

Simon was on the other side away from the guy and calm.

And Amelia just felt like trying to help.

Something about him, something she hadn't fully identified yet.

"Yeah, I think it's an Army thing."

Yes, Army. You can ignore the feeling all you want but the moment your military loved one steps out the door for training or debriefing or deployment, there is a very real possibility, no matter how small, that they won't ever come back.

She, like so many others before and after her, had found that out . . .

 _"We regret to inform you, Mrs. Watson . . ."_

. . . the hard way.

Now in the present, Mr. I'ma Caged Wolf, glanced down at her again . . .

"You're always prepared for the worst."

. . . as she continued to ramble . . .

"Always on edge."

. . . on and on.

"Nobody else really gets it."

And _on_.

He didn't really answer but tensed up even further if were at all possible.

Like a rubber band about to snap.

She tried to make her expression as nonthreatening and friendly as possible.

Smiling . . .

"Well, nice that the possible crisis . . ."

Trying to let him know he wasn't alone in this world.

". . . is over now."

Though she suspected there was absolutely no way this man was going to decompress until he was in his safe place away from everyone else.

"Well, see you around."

So she decided to let him go before he imploded on the spot.

He kind of vaguely nodded and she squeezed Simon's hand to signal they were going to continue walking.

And hoped the guy was going to be alright.

Because he really didn't . . .

 _Very violently American, Am_ , she chided herself. _Getting all up in his business. You just made it worse._

. . . seem alright at all.

And she wondered if she would ever see him again.

* * *

But as it turned out . . .

"I'm Amelia."

. . . she and Simon weren't the only ones who had a routine.

"I'm . . ."

He was back on the Cismigiu, still swathed in layers and his ballcap and constantly shifting blue eyes.

Beautiful and captivating even in their veiled defensiveness.

". . . Carl."

He was a big dude, built like a truck though he tried to hide it.

Scruffy and long haired.

 _Bullshit._

Ruggedly handsome.

And definitely _not_ a Carl.

She smiled at him, thinking Carl was a used car salesman or an accountant.

Or somebody's dad.

Somebody good, sure.

But this is dude, no.

But at least this time he didn't look like he was being hunted by the Justin Bieber Harry Krishnas.

So she decided to let it slide.

Sorta.

"Hmmm, interesting. You don't strike me as a . . ."

 _Railroad man._

". . . Carl."

His constantly roaming gaze caught hers for a second and she swore she saw a flash of guilt . . .

 _Gotta check that poker face, Secret Agent Man._

. . . course through his eyes.

"You strike me as a Billy or a Tommy or a . . ."

She was solemned then.

Something was up with this guy.

He was under high alert, did not want to be found, and struck her for all the world like a beaten, lost, scrappy puppy.

A pit bull puppy maybe.

But a puppy.

And she decided to give him what he needed.

Kindness.

And time.

". . . well, I don't know," she relented, shelving the matter for the time being. "Something."

He relaxed then, just a touch.

And she figured it was the best she was going to get.

Maybe not a smile. Or a laugh. Or even a truth.

"Well, Simon and I are pleased to make your acquaintance, Carl."

 _Not-Carl._

But at least he didn't seem to be as likely to hurdle himself into orbit for the moment.

So she rambled for another minute, trying to take pressure off him to speak.

And finally decided enough . . .

 _Nobody must have said you weren't exhausting, Not-Carl._

. . . was enough.

And alerted Simon to their impending departure.

Transitional time was important for Simon.

Her mother . . .

" _Here we go, Si-, oh dear, what's wrong with him?"_

 _"Nothing's wrong with him, Mom. You just jerked him up without any warning."_

 _"I did not_ jerk _him, Amy. It's time to go."_

 _"You gotta prepare him, Mom. The autism site said you gotta forewarn him when change is on its way."_

 _"It's just a naptime, Amy."_

 _"He's just an autistic, Mom."_

She felt him observing her curiously just like everyone else did.

But she had long ago stopped allowing other people's opinions to matter to her.

Simon was important. That was it.

But her new nearly silent park companion didn't question, didn't cut his eyes away.

Didn't seem embarrassed by her small display.

So she smiled and rattled on and eventually . . .

"Bye, Carl."

 _Not-Carl_.

. . . took her leave.

Until another Thursday.

* * *

 **Yep, those eyes, those eyes, good grief those eyes.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, BarnesandMiddleEarth, brynerose, tamarabvillar, and Sassiebone for your reviews! I'm so glad you decided to stick around for this second part, yay!**

 **Thanks also to lynnenikko666 for adding your support to this story! :)**

 **As you can tell I'm trying to balance Bucky/Amelia chapters. Mostly because at this point I feel I could really write for Amelia indefinitely.**

 **So, until, next time!**


	20. Daily Schedules and Deviations From

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Daily Schedules and Not-Carl Based Deviations From

* * *

Amelia Watson got up every morning at five, a full hour before Simon.

Washed and groomed, dressed, had a sip or two of coffee.

Mentally built herself up to be supportive and patient.

And woke up her boy at six.

Gently. Quietly.

With soft lamplight.

A solid, firm hand on his upper back, chest, or shoulder, depending on how he was positioned.

And a warm glow coloring her voice.

"Good morning, Simon."

Sometimes it took a few minutes. Sometimes he opened his eyes right away.

Sometimes the awakening process caused him discontent and he started out the day oversensitized and, for lack of a better term, grumpy.

Once she had him out of his bed, she would review with him the day's picture schedule that she had made.

Pointing to each hand drawn picture and reading the simple phrase written under it. Lightly discussing what they were going to be doing.

Whether or not he appeared to pay attention, she knew it helped.

Had seen it help.

And experienced the compounded struggles of the day early on in their invention when she had gotten lazy and tried to skip it.

Afterward, she made a fed him a simple Paleo breakfast and helped him wash.

Gently combing his hair.

Guiding the toothbrush around his mouth and the washcloth over his often crusty little face.

The brush carefully through his mousy brown hair.

It was alot for him to deal with, so much directed stimulation, so after that he usually swung in the living area while she did a quick clean up.

The thirty minute Metro ride to the school was made mostly tolerable with the right set of headphones and a carefully selected episode of _Charlie and Lola_.

And the times when it wasn't, well, she did her best. Everyone had problems and people could just suck it up for all she allowed herself to care.

Simon came first.

He went into his eight o'clock class relatively easily thanks to his highly supportive and understanding teacher and her assistant.

Amelia took the trip time as she could to work on her blog, respond to emails.

Sometimes she just sat and observed her precious, special little boy.

Studying him, learning him better.

Loving him.

And when he was off for a morning of learning, if she didnt feel like going home, she completed her essentials shopping. Edited her blog or worked on an upcoming project in some quiet, tucked away coffeeshop.

She had already had been a blogger and freelance web designer before Simon.

Needing income, not wanting to be military herself, she had cast about for something easily portable and self-sufficient.

Army wives needed fluid jobs that could follow them. Instead of them trying to track down something in every new place.

Thus, her career choice.

Jack had been, as always, supportive.

"Cool! You can go to work naked, babe!"

"Don't you wish!"

"Yeah, I do! I just said!"

"Well . . . 'I'm a genie in a bottle, baby' . . ."

"No! Not that song!"

Her mother had held a slightly different perspective.

 _"That's nice, dear. When are you going to get a real job?"_

 _Oh good lord, I'm gonna need some of_ her _nerve pills if she doesn't stop._

All of which had collected unimportance and dust following Jack's death and her subsequent nosedive into depression.

She had tried to pick it up a bit at a time in the months afterward but everything had seemed hollow and vapid to her then.

Until Simon's diagnosis.

And she'd had something worthy with which to devote her spare, so very spare, time.

Slowly evolving her blog topic from Army widow/single mom to all of the above plus autism. And finding an entire community of people banding together to understand and love and support their spectrumed children.

Which was a breath of fresh air to her.

It also helped to allow her the freedom she needed to take care of Simon properly, reducing her stress.

Thereby reducing his.

Now, once her work was sufficiently completed for the time being, she gave herself the rest.

Sometimes she just walked around the city, taking in all the sights, the sounds.

Breathing deeply, walking at her own pace.

Perhaps treating herself to a bite in a cafe or some vendor-purchased non-Paleo morsel.

Giving herself all the time she could, in the rain, the sun, the bitter cold, so she could give the rest to him when the time came.

Breathing in the good, breathing out the bad.

Letting herself be, for the moment, free.

And after his school was over at one, the routine began again.

Home for decompression and a nap.

Up again for reading time, a puzzle. A math match game or a word association.

He really loved homemade playdough.

Sometimes Simon played. Sometimes he did not.

She did what she could with him.

And remembered she didn't always want to be directed all the time either when he became disassociated.

They often went for a walk before the evening meal, her sincere belief that always being cooped up inside easily led to depression and despondency.

Taking them short, mostly comfortable . . .

"Hey, hey, hey, baby . . ."

 _Can you please find another hobby, jerk-_

. . . distances from the red doorstoop of their aging apartment building.

And then home again.

Where a quick and easy Paleo dinner signaled the beginnings of their evenings.

Followed by a shower cleansing that sometimes went well . . .

"Very good, Simon. No soap in the eyes that time, huh?"

. . . and sometimes . . .

 _Maybe I can drip dry the entire apartment?_

. . . not.

More decompression time for both of them.

With Simon back in the swing and her still on the couch for awhile.

Before the bedtime routine . . .

 _Please go to sleep, please go to sleep, please go to sleep-_

. . . the ending of which signified another day successfully traversed.

 _Wow, eight-thirty. Excellent._

Weekends and Thursdays were free days.

Days for them to paint. Cut paper.

Go to a museum or an outdoor concert.

And of course, the Cismigiu.

* * *

So he had brought them delicious surprise plums.

And she had given her little Simon speech, one she gave only to a select few people she felt might be worth the time to bother with.

And he . . .

"Aren't you hot in that jacket, Carl?"

"I'm okay."

 _Uh-huh._

. . . was still pretending to be Carl.

It had been several weeks, several Thursdays.

But she considered the fact that she had used to be an Amy.

A scared, depressed, frustrated little Amy.

Whose mom obviously loved her . . .

 _"I'm just thinking about what's best for you, honey."_

 _"But it's not about me, Mom! It's about Simon!"_

 _"I'm not sure how much he is aware of, Amy."_

 _"I don't care!"_

. . . but was slowly killing her soul.

But she was here now, in her space and her own life.

And it was going pretty well.

* * *

And it had occurred to her that the handsome, seemingly gentle and kind and obviously severely high strung Not-Carl might feel more comfortable in a smaller place than the wide open world.

A cozier environment.

A safer setting.

Like her quirky little . . .

 _Thanks, Uncle Nicolae. And Dad._

. . . Bucharest apartment.

It also occurred to her that he could freak out and attack her more easily in her cozy, wonderful, little apartment.

"Thank you for the grapes."

"Sure! Thank you for plums!"

But she really rather doubted it.

 _Plus, I can take him down if I have to._

 _If._

So, as casually as she could, she invited him to come home with them as they were leaving the park that day.

He seemed at a loss for words and she oddly thought . . .

 _It's just coffee, Not-Carl. I'm not offering an orgy invite._

. . . she might have offended him.

But he accepted somewhat awkwardly and they went.

"It's just a few blocks away. You're not afraid of stairs, are you?"

* * *

Like most common Bucharest dwellings, there was never even a thought of elevators.

And she had developed . . .

 _Fourth floor, beam me up, Scotty!_

. . . great glutes as a direct result.

 _All that gym membership in the States, all I needed was stairs in Romania._

* * *

 **Little more understanding into Amelia's life as she juggles sanity, Simon, and Not-Carl. I admire her, that's for sure.**

 **Thanks to vajbff, eileanskye, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, brynerose, and brigid1318 for your encouraging reviews.**

 **Next up, more Bucky!**


	21. Amelia Watson Brings Home a Guy

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Amelia Brings Home a Guy

* * *

Amelia Watson loved her apartment.

It was old and homey and fit her and Simon wonderfully.

She unlocked and opened the door, so ready for feel of smoothly worn wood . . .

"You can leave yours on if you want, Carl."

. . . on her bare feet.

And allowed the welcome feel of her sanctuary to envelope her.

Simon, of course, was ahead of her, headed straight for his closet nook.

Eager for the soothing, snug tranquility it offered him.

She set down her bag in the tiny kitchen.

Passed under the shelved archway where the majority of her few knickknacks and extraneous possessions were stored.

And over the beautiful carpet she and her uncle had spent the summer painting when she was twelve.

"Uncle Nick, not on the floor! We'll get in trouble!"

The short little man had grinned at her.

"Why? It's our floor!"

And at that heartily spoken statement, another piece of her world had opened up.

 _We can do something different?_ _And we won't get into trouble?_

Skirting the living space and into her tiny bedroom to finally catch up with Simon, already settling himself onto his cushioned pallet.

She had read autistics benefited from a safe cozy decompressing area and so the first thing she had done upon taking ownership of the apartment was reassign her bedroom closet space.

Applying Uncle Nick's painting philosophy to the needs of her child.

Removing the hanger bar, the shelving.

And in its place, arranging a low, narrow pallet, with shorter shelves at the foot.

Hanging her considerably reduced closet wardrobe on a free standing rack against the wall next to her bed. Shoes underneath.

Folded clothing and undergarments in closed plastic containers slid under her bed.

A few pieces of jewelry hanging from hooks and nails on the wall as decor.

She hardly ever wore any anyway. Simon tended to tear it off during his fits. Hurt her. Himself.

And that was an unnecessary hazard. Just for a bit of shine that didn't really matter.

So she had set it all in place and felt good about it.

Nice, easy, streamlined. Manageable.

And conformed to their needs, instead of them conforming to the norms of the world around them.

Simon had loved the closet nook.

He had slept there at night for months while adjusting to the new routines and lifestyle Amelia had been putting into place for them.

It was the first time since he had started manifesting markers of abnormality, that either of them had slept well for any length of time.

Close to his mother but in his own space.

And now it was just the spot he deferred to for daytime decompression.

"Simon?"

In the world out there, she more and more easily spoke Romanian and snippets of other languages with the people she encountered.

And Not-Carl, who clearly did not want to draw attention to himself in any way, even as a transplanted American.

But here, in her home, she naturally switched over to English.

Simon did not look at her as her shadow fell over him, darkening the tiny space.

He would not appreciate being touched right now. So she didn't. Knowing later would be a better time to kiss his forehead or draw him into a gentle hug.

"I'm going to sit in the kitchen and have some coffee with our guest."

But that was okay, she had not expected him to.

"You relax in here as long as you want, okay?"

Only choosing to communicate with him, offer the human connection that she devoutly believed had to be so important.

Whether he outwardly responded to it or not.

He turned away from her, facing the blank wall.

And she, after gazing upon her special boy for another moment, a faint ache squeezing her chest briefly, turned away.

And approached the dour man clearly ill at ease . . .

 _But I doubt you're really comfortable anywhere, are you, Not-Carl?_

. . . in an unfamiliar environment.

She smiled sunnily at him, gave him a brief rundown of Simon's current whereabouts . . .

 _Did I put away the Tampax? Yeah, I put away the Tampax-_

. . . and sent him off to the restroom.

While she made coffee.

* * *

"This is a nice apartment."

 _Hey, he speaks!_

And she felt she had accomplished something.

"Thanks! It was my great uncle's."

Uncle Nick, quirky sweet little Romanian man managing to stay lighthearted and probably gay even through the communist state and the fall of it thereafter.

And then she had to decide . . .

". . . a few years after Jack died . . ."

. . . what she wanted to tell to this man who tried unsuccessfully to veil his eyes . . .

"I came out here for a break."

. . . and what she didn't.

"Just never went back."

Best simplest answer she could offer.

But there was so much more to it.

Jack had been her lifeline, her salvation from the suffocating boredom of the life she had been raised to lead.

Not a bad life, not an ugly one.

But boring as hell.

So she had fallen in love with a military guy and spent a few years following him as he was deployed to various corners of the world.

Only sucking it up and going home when Afghanistan wasn't a country a pregnant Army wife really should be setting foot.

And when they had shown up on her mother's doorstep with the news . . .

"Jack?"

"Army. Afghanistan."

. . . she had mentally and physically collapsed.

But that . . .

"So Carl, what do you do?"

. . . was a story for another time.

* * *

Amelia Watson did not invite many people into her little Bucharest apartment.

She did not invite men at all.

Anytime one of her few well-meaning friends (Ana, for instance, God bless her) tried to set her up to meet a man, it was out in public.

A cafe. Museum.

The Cismigiu.

People in Romanian culture didn't technically really date.

They met for coffee. Went on walks. Talked.

Do that more than three or four times and it was just kind of assumed you were 'dating'.

Other things were sort of assumed as well.

And so far, none of the men she had been introduced to had gotten any further than a second cup of joe for her.

Back in the States, she had lived in her parents' house after Jack had died and any romantic inclinations at all (save for one horrifying debacle) were the furthest thing from her exhausted, miserable mind.

And before that, Jack.

So to have a man sitting in her kitchen, drinking her coffee, using her bathroom, was weird.

Beyond weird.

Surreal.

It also didn't help . . .

 _Good grief, he's beautiful._

. . . that he was throughly attractive to her.

 _I bet he's hiding out 'cause he killed all the ladies._

Sitting there, still all covered up. Even his gloves.

 _I mean, that jawline._

Talking a little here and a little there.

 _That hair._

Mostly in response to her inquiry of his livelihood.

 _Those eyes._

Day laborer. Construction. Maintenance man.

 _Good lord, those eyes._

In the light of all that perfection though, glared one serious red flag.

Well, more than one.

 _He's lying to me about who he is._

 _And he's a freaky deaky trainwreck._

So she set in her mind that she was going to accept and assimilate his inherent hotness with everything else about him and keep it light and easy and platonic between them.

Because . . .

 _I don't get romantically involved with freaky deaky trainwrecks._

 _Not anymore._

 _Which would be alot easier if he would stop biting his lip and looking all pensive._

 _Oh my goodness, he just did it again._

 _Oh my gosh, he's not even_ trying _, is_ he?

* * *

 **Some of you have expressed respect for Amelia's inner strength and her strong independent personality.**

 **Hopefully her mini meltdown doesn't hurt that. But honestly. Bucky, ya'll.**

 **And if that's not your type, surely you must have a swoon worthy type.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318 and Ruby Rosetta Red for reviewing! I'm glad you're so invested in Amelia and Simon! I'll try and make it a good read for you! :D**

 **Next up, it's not a date. It's most definitely _not_ a date. Not a date.**


	22. Not the Best of Days

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Not the Best of Days

* * *

She was trying, she really was.

Determined to compartmentalize him.

 _I am me. I am in control of me._

And she was doing really well.

In spite of the fact that she was actively having to resist wiping the chocolate from the stuffed covrigi off his scruffy chin.

 _Just a little touch-_

 _Nope_.

Because even though the sun was nicely warming her and the day was lovely and Old Town was charming in its mix of hipsterness and Old World . . .

 _Freaky deaky trainwreck._

. . . she still wasn't losing sight of her decisions.

 _Friends. Friends, Amelia. Just friends._

She was also feeling a bit hyper and unhinged, playing hooky from her blog and current web design project.

They walked, they, okay mostly she, talked.

"When Simon is older and can handle more, we're going to travel around Romania. Castle Bran, The Palace of Culture, I think we'll skip the Hoia Bachu Forest . . ."

Carl . . .

 _Not-Carl._

. . . seemed content to listen to her prattle on . . .

 _No seriously, Not-Carl, I can talk for_ _days once I get going,_ _honey._

. . . as they strolled.

"We might even go outside Romania, wouldn't that be something, have you traveled much, Carl?"

"A little."

Past shops and clubs and cafés and clubs.

All of which Not-Carl seemed to be wary of.

She took it in stride, deciding she was going to put no pressure on him to face down his anxieties.

 _How would I approach Simon?_

And just remained content enough . . .

 _No Grand Cafe Van Gogh, alright. Couldn't afford to buy water in there in anyway. Hello, yes, please, how much to breathe the air?_

. . . to wander.

But she _did_ pressure him into the covrigi.

Because she didn't want to eat it all.

And everyone deserved the occasional twisted hot dough . . .

"I could eat these _every day_!"

. . . filled with sugary yumminess.

The gothic Centre of Pasajul Maaca-Vilacrosse would be wonderful to stroll, a call back to another, more regal time.

But if Not-Carl struggled to traverse the open citywalks of Old Town, the Centre of Pasajul Maaca-Vilacrosse wasn't even a consideration.

And that was okay.

Another day she would peruse it with Ana.

For now, she chose . . .

 _Tourist Day!_

. . . the more open, less populated spaces of the Old Princely Court.

Where Vlad the Impaler had reined during his life before the vampire age.

Amelia had been a secret teenage vampire fanatic.

Back before Twilight made them sparkle.

And Underworld put them in black leather.

She'd hid the books under her mattress so her mother couldn't disapprove of them.

And read them, wide-eyed and tingly, late at night after everyone went to bed.

The statue of Vlad the Impaler was a far cry from the effeminate, long winded Lestat and Armand.

But she was feeling silly and carefree.

Whipping out her phone . . .

"Come on, let's take a picture with Vlad!"

. . . for an impromptu selfie with Not-Carl and the six hundred year old Romanian warlord.

Her living male companion blanched and ducked away, seeming to pretend to study some crumbling piece of masonry.

She wavered, lost for a second . . .

 _It's just a selfie, Not-Carl._

. . . and then rallied.

"I won't Facebook it!" She grinned wickedly. "If you ask nice."

The dark haired man touched the brim of his ballcap, pulling it a touch lower.

"Carl?"

Her suspicions that she had offended him somehow and he didn't want to spend time with her anymore were strengthened when he next spoke.

"Maybe we should walk back."

Her buoyant spirits deflated, smashing her back down to the reality of the real world.

"Did I say something? Is this about the picture? I didn't mean . . ."

He offered her a false smile that seemed to pain him.

Before reverting his now hooded, downcast eyes to the cobblestones at their feet.

"No. I just have to go."

She studied him for a long moment. Then acquiesced and walked with him back to the Cismigiu, leaving his presence with a smile she didn't really feel either.

And went about her way.

 _Maybe I made a mistake. He really seems to just want to be left alone. Maybe I really should just leave him alone._

* * *

The air was marked with the scent of calming lavender.

And soothing ocean waves.

Amelia Watson sat on the floor of the kitchen with her precious, little, dark eyed, dark haired autistic son.

He'd had a bad day at school.

Hed had a bad day, period.

Some activity or other had upset him and he had chunked learning manipulatives across the room and begun throwing a fit.

Time on the quiet rug and wearing the weighted jacket had helped to moderately soothe him for a time.

The ride home on the Metro had not.

The video he tried to watch had kept buffering, the transport seemed jerkier than normal.

And the fly simply would not go away.

He had grown more and more agitated despite her best efforts to soothe him.

And had eventually had to be dragged, screaming, off the bus.

The walk home . . .

"Baby, baby, hey baby-"

Had been an exercise in overcoming insurmountable odds as even though home was the place he wanted to be, she could not seem to _get_ him there.

They had veritably collapsed upon entering apartment.

And she had nearly wept with relief when he had finally laid down for a nap.

Only to have him awake fifteen minutes later (instead of the usual hour), screaming because his feet itched.

Or she thought they did.

But they had survived that.

And the next thing. And the next thing.

And the next.

Until finally here they were.

Peacefully squishing and shaping homemade, lavender-scented playdough to the sound of the gently lapping ocean waves.

Which was calming her down for the moment.

But unfortunately also was making her have to pee.

Amelia put down her playdough and attempted to rub the exhaustion out of her eyes.

And looked at her son.

"I love you, Simon. You're a good boy and I love you."

She dared to carefully and gently kiss him on the forehead. And to her relief, he let her without compliant.

Later she would write and record in her daily journal Simon's experience.

Probably with a cup of chamomile tea.

But for the moment, she slowly got up so as not to alarm Simon with sudden movement .

And went to go relieve her bladder.

* * *

After journaling, she opened her laptop.

 _Hey Whodunit, you out there? It's SailedTrain._

 _Hey, sweetie, what's up?_

 _Bad day._

 _Sippin' on gin and juice?_

 _Chamomile tea._

 _Good second. ;)_

 _I guess._

 _Spill it, honey._

 _I don't know. I had a bad morning. S. had a bad afternoon. I'm exhausted._

 _You keep yourself locked down?_

 _Yeah, not easy. But yeah._

 _Good girl. Now go take your tea and curl up with a good book, okay? Maybe spend some quality time with Mr. Vibrator._

 _I don't have a Mr. Vibrator._

 _Aren't you missing out!_

 _Ha._

 _Relax, honey. I'll check in on you tomorrow._

 _Okay. Thanks, Who._

 _No problem, Sailed. Ciao._

* * *

 **Coupla reasons to include this seemingly throwaway chapter of the Old Town experience with Amelia's POV.**

 **One, she's not perfect. She gets frustrated, she's not the perfect angel of mercy Bucky sees her as. Two, to show how much Bucky's lie is hindering the positive development of their relationship. And, including Simon, it shows just how far apart people can be to each even when they care about each other.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, Ruby Rosetta Red, and brynerose for reviewing! Very gracious of you!**

 **Which by the way, means we're all up to The Night Not-Carl Stops Lying, yay!**


	23. Who the Hell is Bucky?

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Who the Hell is Bucky?

* * *

Living with an autistic had certain military similarities.

You prepared for any and every eventuality you could think of.

Your existence seemed to zero in to a point at times.

And you could go from dead asleep to on your feet and actively moving in the space of less than five seconds.

So it was that Amelia Watson found herself standing in her living room . . .

 _Simon?_

. . . listening for the hammering . . .

 _No, banging, it was banging . . ._

. . . sound again.

And there it was.

Not Simon . . .

 _Wake up my peacefully sleeping autistic son, I'll beat the crap out of you._

. . . but . . .

 _What?_

. . . the door.

Whoever it was, was intent on either speaking to her or breaking down the barrier in the process.

So she slipped her phone into one pocket of her robe.

 _Open. Emergency number ready. Close. Okay._

And her Mace . . .

 _Burn your eyes out of your head._

. . . into the other.

And went to the door.

What the . . .

"Carl? What is it? What's going on?"

She got scared real quick. She had never seen him like this.

He looked crazed. He looked mad.

Panting, gloved hands gripping either side of the doorframe like he was about to tear it off.

He looked . . .

"Are you . . . is Simon . . . are you both okay?"

. . . terrified.

Even worse than the day she had first spoken to him on the street.

 _Oh my god, Carl, what the h-_

"Yeah. What-"

He was pouring sweat and his blue eyes were big and full of fear.

"Can I come in and check?"

 _Noooooooo_.

But he looked like he would tear down the door if she refused.

And his concern did seem directed for them.

So she let him in.

He darted over the threshold and she closed the door just as quickly, his barely bottled hysteria beginning to rub off on her.

 _What the hell, Carl? What is it? Who do you think is here?_

The instant he was inside, his entire demeanor changed.

He moved low and fast and smooth. Eyes taking in the entire room a quadrant at a time and all at once.

 _Like, like, like . . ._

 _Like a soldier in war._

 _Oh god._

And her fear deepened.

If he was caught up in a PTSD attack, anything could set him off.

She followed him, heart pounding, as he darted up Simon's steps . . .

 _Whoa, what are you doing, get away from my son . . ._

. . . and back down once he cleared the room.

Back into the kitchen, the window seeming to draw his disapproval.

The bathroom . . .

 _No Stephen King clown in the sink, Carl._

Through the living space, more naked glass to bring added consternation to his taunt face.

And into her bedroom . . .

 _Just me, hey-_

. . . Simon's closet, another damn window . . .

 _Have I always had this many windows here?_

. . . and finally the living space again.

Where he stood, seeming to finally be calming.

Though she sure as hell . . .

 _Mace. Throat. Balls. Toes._

. . . wasn't.

Placing herself between this possible lunatic and her precious son.

"Carl, what the _hell_?! Are you drunk or something?"

Amelia Watson steeled herself for whatever she was going to have to do.

"No, I can't get drunk," he replied, as if that was the most unimportant question in the world.

 _The hell you say._

"I . . . I . . . I thought you were in danger."

 _From you maybe._

But . . .

"Why?"

He breathing was slowing but his muscles were just as tense as ever when he replied.

"Because of me."

 _Okay. Hen's teeth here._

"Why? Who are you?"

His face shut down then and she knew they had reached fission.

He could either come clean right now or . . .

"Carl, I can't afford to have people in my life that I don't trust. I won't endanger my son over a nutjob. Start talking or get out."

And it was true.

It really was.

Beautiful blue eyes or not. Gentle demeanor or not. Big, buff, burly teddybear or not, the time had come to cut the crap.

Or that was it.

He was gone.

She waited, counting to ten before she called emergency and maced the shit out of him.

And then he took off his hat, running a gloved hand through thick, dark hair that she currently was too wired to swoon over.

And spoke.

"My name's not Carl."

 _Well, duh._

She raised an eyebrow.

"Shocker."

Her snark seemed lost on him and she realized it was taking an enormous effort for him to speak to her now.

"My name is James Buchanan Barnes."

 _Like the president? The one who couldn't stop the Civil War? And was probably gay?_

"My friends used to call me Bucky."

 _Oh lord, what a name. Where's Davy Crockett?_

But then he kept talking.

And she almost wished she hadn't.

". . . wanted by the government . . . trained assassin . . ."

He sounded crazy.

" . . . Winter Soldier . . . kill alot of people . . . "

It was like a slow flood of words that she didn't want to hear.

Ravings.

 _He's out of his mind._

Delusions.

 _How do I attract these whack jobs?_

Insanity.

 _But I spoke to him first._

And her stomach became a hot sick rock.

 _This can't possibly be true._

"So if this is true . . ."

 _Let's just entertain this craziness for a second here, Whoever-The-Hell-You-Are._

". . . why are you blowing your cover and telling me?"

His answer floored her.

"Because you're a good person . . ."

 _Yes, I am._

". . . and you don't deserve what I've done to you and your son . . ."

 _No, we don't._

". . . you deserve to know the truth."

 _Yes, I do._

But he wasn't getting off that easy.

Because . . .

"You could just be crazy. Some dude who heard a news story and fixated."

And much to her surprise . . .

 _What's this now?_

. . . he carefully laid his hat on the kitchen table.

And with an obvious misgivings, removed his left glove.

 _Oh my god._

Revealing shiny silver metal fingers.

Looked up at her.

 _The Terminator is strong with this one._

Back down.

And wiggled them.

But Amelia Watson was tough.

"Shiny, Carl. James. _Bucky_."

This did not seem to be the response he had been expecting.

He paused then reached up with the remaining gloved hand and unzipped his hoodie.

Removing it and dropping it to the table atop the cap.

His arm was . . . _metal_. Like, _all_ of it.

Not the rods of metal amputees sometimes had.

A full on metal arm.

"Nice sleeve. I can buy one on Amazon for fifty bucks."

Big words but she felt like she was about to fall over.

Holding on by a thread.

But they seemed to have reached some point of no return. So . . .

"Come on then, Super Soldier. Let's have it."

His first look of exasperation toward her passed over his face.

Which would have been adorable had she not been concentrating on not falling down.

 _You started this shit, Carl. Let's go._

And with her last reserve of chill, held her ground.

He clenched his jaw even tighter if that was possible. And moved, pulling the shirt up over a lean, flat, ripped stomach . . .

 _Oh my sweet Christmas._

. . . up to reveal an equally muscled, smooth chest . . .

 _There's a man stripping in my kitchen._

. . . and finally over his head, powerful, strong arms rippling with muscles.

Head tilted momentarily toward the ceiling, jawline taut and defined against the scruff of his beard.

Long dark hair brushing his shoulders, falling free of the fabric.

And then the shirt went on the table too.

And he stood there, barechested.

And dully gleaming.

* * *

 **So now Bucky's shirtless in Amelia's kitchen again. So there's that. ;)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, OnYourLeft107, Ruby Rosetta Red, tamarabvillar, and Redhead2000 for your reviews!**

 **Next, we touch the arm. I mean, Amelia touches the arm. ;)**


	24. The Man Made of Metal

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

The Man Made of Metal

* * *

 _Holy merde._

The arm was metal, completely metal.

Not the polyalloy metal typically used on amputees.

Strange metal.

Thick and rounded and shaped to resemble a muscular human arm.

It was like he was part machine.

And it was all solid, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingers.

Solid, shiny . . .

 _What the actual_ hell _?_

. . . metal.

As if in a dream, she moved forward slowly.

To touch it.

Within inches of him, she stopped.

Looked up.

Look into those blue eyes, so thick and heavily storm cloud grey she thought it would rain in her kitchen.

And asked her question without words.

 _Can I?_

He didn't want her to, that was clear.

 _Nobody touches Machine Man, Carl?_

 _James?_

 _Bucky?_

But she had to.

 _I just have to._

His skin was warm and living under her touch as she grazed his left collarbone.

And then cool and slick as she advanced across the metal.

It wasn't detachable like prosthetics were supposed to be.

It was . . . adhered to him. Permanently. Like, forever.

 _Does it itch? Does it pull? Does it_ hurt _?_

If it didn't now, it surely had at some point.

Badly.

 _All different parts and pieces. God, what did they do to you?_

She tread carefully, not wanting to pinch her fingers in the gaps between the interlocking pieces that moved together and independently.

It was entrancing and hypnotizing and, and, and . . . amazing.

 _I could spend_ days _just inspecting this thing._

She was sure she was speaking . . .

" . . . feel anything with it?"

. . . but she was only vaguely aware of the sound of her own distant voice.

Because the hum of the machinery was overriding everything else in the entire world for her at the moment.

It hummed and clicked and buzzed and hissed, the metal as it moved on the surface where her fingertips were.

And deep within the structure itself.

She wondered what it was doing, how he controlled it and how it felt.

How he listened to that mechanical sound all the time and didn't go crazy.

What it was like to be a real, living, cyborg Terminator.

She felt the power in them as his metal fingers curled around her flesh ones.

He could crush her bones to splinters if he wanted, grind them to dust in an instant of ripping flesh and tearing muscle.

He had the power.

And all her Krav Maga in the world could not save her.

He could do it.

Render her helpless and in agony. Forever maimed.

And she believed.

She absolutely believed everything he had told her and everything he would tell her.

Because this man was engineered to be a brutal, merciless, killing machine.

And he was standing calmly and quietly and passively in her quiet midnight kitchen.

She let go and stepped back, raising a hand to her head.

Trying to focus her thoughts beyond what the ever loving actual eff was going on.

And shut her eyes.

 _The hell, the hell, what the blue hell . . ._

And opened her eyes, still wavering between a dead faint and an overwhelmed, bewildered explosion.

And realized he was still . . .

 _Look at that chest, could he be more smooth and ripped and . . ._

"Okay, GQ model, you win. I believe."

 _I can't handle anything else right now, I'm so full of impossible things. Just . . . later._

"You can put your clothes back on."

He followed her directive and started redressing . . .

 _Dear god in heaven, I need a drink._

. . . while she mouthed off and . . .

" . . . impossible things right now . . ."

. . . and got herself some liquid courage.

Amelia Watson did not drink often, hardly ever at all.

She couldn't afford to.

Her son needed her physically well and psychologically fit.

And she didn't want to start something she couldn't stop.

She had bought this bottle two weeks after moving to Bucharest, when she was questioning all the time her decision to completely change her life . . .

 _I can't do this, I just can't do this, I can't do anything right . . ._

. . . and needed to breathe.

It was still only a little less than half full and that had been four years ago.

She kept it in the freezer specifically for times like this.

Times when a metal armed wanted assassin stood bare chested in her kitchen, apparently.

And poured oceans of drowning emotion out of eyes bluer than anything else on earth.

One shot was all she ever took, fast and hard, like medicine.

And she did so now, feeling the bite and burn.

And . . .

 _Why'd you give the unstable super soldier alcohol, you dimwit?_

. . . put it back in the freezer.

"Are you going to contact the authorities now?"

 _Wait, what, he's giving himself up?_

No, more likely he was planning to run again.

And if he ran again, he'd be all alone.

Unless there was a string of transplanted mothers raising autistic children on the lookout for a sad, lost, Romania puppy to take in and befriend until he went half-nuts at two in the morning with a PTSD attack.

 _What the hell, Carl? Bucky._

"Do you want me to?"

"I deserve it."

Usually pitiful, manipulative bullshit statements like that sent her into a blue rage, ending with getting rid of the dick trying to manipulate her emotions.

But when she looked at him, all that rising flood of emotions disappated like a fog of breath.

His expression was sincere, eyes honest.

And tortured by whatever he had done and seen and been a part of.

 _Oh my God, he really does believe he deserves punishment. He deserves misery and isolation and pain and retribution for all that he's done._

And he did.

He had murdered people. In cold blood.

For no reason other than he was told to.

But not him. This . . . Winter Soldier persona, this alternate identity.

And as Amelia stood there, her mind racing a million miles an hour, staring at the man sitting at her little kitchen table, everything slowly became clear.

He was a victim.

He had been taken against his will.

Torn apart and put back together.

Body and mind.

And used. Commanded.

Like a puppet on a string.

Or a dog on a leash.

And she had to wrap her arms around herself to keep from shattering apart.

 _Oh my god. Oh Bucky, oh my god. I'm so sorry._

She also realized this was a defining moment between them.

Everything between them hinged on this.

And it was too big for her.

 _I'm just a person. I'm a mom. I'm not a . . . whatever the hell this guy needs._

 _What he needs a friend._

 _And a ton of therapy._

And she knew she had to say just the right words to him because he may not have ever heard them before.

"What was done to you was unspeakable. The simple fact that you survived, broke through, and are sitting here now is a miracle."

And it was, it really was.

"Most people have no idea how precious their lives are. They don't realize how precious their _freedom_ is. Physical freedom, emotional freedom. Mental freedom."

There had been times in her life when she taken those freedoms for granted. And times when she had thought she would never break free.

Nothing to any extent of what this man had suffered of course.

She could not even _begin_ to imagine.

But she could see him as he was now.

This man. This Bucky.

Deep down inside him was a person crying out for redemption and salvation.

A human being.

Who thought he was a monster.

So she put her hands on the table, locked eyes with him.

And opened up her soul.

"You can't fix whatever you've done in the past. You can only fight to be a good person now."

In the hopes that it would unlock his.

"And never give up fighting. Ever. Because you were, and _are_ , and _can be_ , a good man."

And it did.

This guy with a wall around his heart and a machine for an arm, cracked and slowly broke down.

And because whatever the hell else he was, he was still a human being with a soul.

He hid his breakdown of course, people scrambling for pride and dignity always did.

He hid it and she let him.

Turning away, pouring a glass of clear, cool water to replace the untouched alcohol.

Laying a cloth by his elbow so he could wipe his face when he was done falling apart.

And turned away to wipe microscopic dust off the counter.

Move the salt and pepper containers millimeters back into place.

And took her own time to put herself back together as well.

Finally when she was thinking she might as well consider starting breakfast if she was already up, he rose back up out of himself.

And looked at her.

His eyes were swollen and red and still woundedly blue.

But he was calm.

And Simon was calm and asleep.

She was in one piece more or less.

And the world was still spinning. Even with all the revelations of the past hour.

His husky voice hardly trembled at all when he finally spoke.

"Thank you, Amelia."

 _Said the big, brawny, ex-psycho assassin. God._

And she knew she'd made the right decision.

"You're welcome, Bucky."

* * *

 **So, I really can't think of anything here but to say thank all of you for reading this far. Reviewers and non-reviewers alike, I really appreciate you all! :D**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, eileanskye, Apg, OnYourLeft107, Redhead2000, tamarabvillar, and Ruby Rosetta Red for your great reviews!**

 **Next up, two steps forward, one step back. But maybe it will make more sense later.**


	25. One Step Back

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

One Step Back

* * *

 _Dammit, Bucky. I thought I told you no more bullshit._

And she had. Oh, she said it cute, as a way to lighten the unbelievably heavy situation in which they'd been entrenched.

But she'd meant it.

And after he'd left, she'd known she sure as hell wasn't sleeping anymore _that_ night.

So she'd done the only thing anybody ever could do in that situation.

She threw herself at her computer.

Pretty purple laptop with an external harddrive. Loads of memory.

And of course, internet.

She set a timer first, knowing once she got ensconced she'd forget her morning preparations.

Throwing both her and Simon off their routine.

And her day would be even more shot than it already was going to be.

With that done, she logged on.

 _Google search: Winter Soldier._

She knew that the government (like, all of them) kept track of internet usage and interests.

But she also knew that typing in Dante's _Paradise Lost_ would score her a hit too.

And she had to know.

Unsurprisingly, she was rewarded with loads and loads and _loads_ of conspiracy theorists.

Some of which were more stoned out of their minds than the squirrels at Woodstock.

And some who were closer to the truth.

She found some supposed photocopied documents but they were so heavily redacted, they were barely legible.

HYDRA.

SHIELD.

She remembered this vaguely.

A whole big disaster in Washington, D.C. almost two years back.

Government secrets dumped on the Internet.

Natasha Romanoff, Russian spy turned good guy.

Captain America, pursued by the bad guys.

Like anybody could ever take down _Captain_ _America_ , jeez.

She'd paid attention for a while.

But it was so far away so she kind of let it go.

Because Simon and the day to day trials and tribulations he was still working through were much closer.

She was about to shut it down and call it a day when she had another thought.

It was a long shot but . . .

 _Google search: James Buchanan Barnes._

 _Let's see if he's related to Elvis or some-_

 _What?_

 _What?!_

 _WHAT!_

 _Son. Of. A. Bitch._

Unbelieving, she had stared at the screen.

Scrolling and scrolling and expanding and minimizing.

1917\. 1945.

Steve Rogers.

Captain America.

James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes.

 _Surely, surely, n-_

There was a picture.

 _Oh my God._

 _I'm going to effing kill him._

* * *

By the time he showed up, happier and more relaxed than she'd ever seen him, she was so blue with fury and rage she barely even noticed it.

 _Show up at my house in the middle of the night, scare me to death, tell me you're an ex-psycho assassin, and show me your metal arm._

 _But please don't tell me you're also a hundred freaking years old._

 _'Cause_ that's _the weird part, right._

 _Oh my_ god _._

It was just so much to process, do much to deal with.

And she wanted to be understanding, she really did.

But it was a lot to take in. Even more so than she had imagined.

And there was Simon to consider.

 _Was he safe around a man neither of them apparently knew_ at all _?_

And so she understandably freaked out.

And really let him have it.

". . . not to _lie_ to me anymore!"

". . . organic to the conversation . . ."

". . . not some delicate little glass flower . . ."

Adamantly demanding . . .

"What _else_ are you not telling me?!"

And finally concluding with . . .

"And I already told you that I can't have people in my life that I can't trust!"

She stopped then, gasping for air, her mind a mad scramble.

Staring at him as he stood there.

Mute and statue-still with an entire world of emotion, sorrow and guilt and regret and misery . . .

 _Good grief, how does he always have so much emotion pouring out of his eyes all the damn time, jeez, Bucky . . ._

. . . flooding out of his scruffy face.

And she knew her decision was the only one she could manage, the only one that gave them both what they needed.

He opened his mouth and she didn't want to hear anything more from it until she'd had time to think this through carefully.

"No, please don't say anything . . ."

Because she wasn't going to get anywhere with his whipped puppy dog face and fallen angel eyes filling up her little apartment.

"Today is Sunday . . ."

She needed to understand what was best for her and Simon.

Where this guy was going to fit in her life. What she could afford to feel and allow and what she could not.

She needed to _think_.

She needed to get away from him before she punched him in the pouty face.

So . . .

"I need you to go."

She didn't touch him, god, she _couldn't_ , as she crossed in front of him and opened the door for him to leave.

He watched her silently and she had rarely felt worse.

 _You're sending him out into the cold grown up world all alone. Without a sweater._

A nonsensical phrase. From a quirky kids' cartoon. That did not make her feel any better in its astute accuracy.

So he started to go and she found herself reaching out . . .

 _Dammit, you pushover . . ._

. . .to him almost against her will.

"Bucky? Please come Thursday, okay? I mean it."

And she did, she really did.

She thought she did.

* * *

She missed him, _god_ , she missed him.

He wasn't a daily presence but he was someone she missed when he was supposed to be around and wasn't.

She pushed herself to keep Simon's routine and care and attention.

They finished a puzzle.

He went to school.

She blogged. With much more struggle and effort, she might add.

And of course, she thought.

About Bucky.

At first her anger was supernova hot and she stewed in it, determined to stay good and mad.

But then, it started to cool.

And she started thinking about him.

 _God, 1945._

So long ago.

So much he had missed.

Desegregation.

The Moon Landing.

Woodstock.

Disco.

Chernobyl.

All of the 80s.

The fall of the Wall.

Nirvana.

George Freaking Bush, Jr.

And so, so much more.

All the things that seemed like ancient history to her, just part of the world.

But had changed so much in less than a century.

She was pretty sure the assassin hadn't gotten to partake in free love and platform shoes.

Ripped plaid and the advent of the digital age.

He must feel so lost and all alone all the time.

Brainwashing and assassinations aside, how did one acclimate to such a culture shock?

Was he ever himself? Or had he been asleep the whole time until his friend . . .

 _Must've been Captain America when he crashed into the Potomac last year._

. . . had woken him up?

And what was it like now? Did he remember everything or was it like a scratched record that skips during a song?

She spent an abundant amount of time researching the nineteen forties.

Documentaries and old photographs and articles.

Thinking, thinking, thinking.

 _Jeez, everybody looked and acted so different back then. Clothes, everything._

 _Do women just freak him out now or what?_

And she kept looking, she kept thinking, she kept searching.

World World II, swing dancing, men's clothing, and popular slang terms.

Brainwashing. Rehabilitation.

Hungry for information and knowledge and understanding.

Hungry to know him, to understand where he was coming from.

Until it hit her like a mack truck to the face.

 _What if someone is watching and I'm leading them right to him?_

 _What if they're like him, unstoppable?_

 _What if they try and hurt me and Simon?_

And terrified, she slammed shut her laptop and had to shake the low grade terror washing over her.

 _Oh my god, is this how he feels all the_ time _?_

And she could not stop her tremors.

* * *

It did not change the fact that he had lied to her. Kept excessively important information from her.

And that, above all else, Simon's safety must come first.

Even before her own strong pull . . .

 _Nothing's more important than Simon. Nothing._

. . . toward helping this man.

So naturally, she went back to her friends.

Online.

The ones who could be faceless.

The ones she could carefully send words-turned-binary-turned-words to.

And omit anything incriminating well before pressing send.

She hoped.

 _Hey, Whodunit, I need some help with a guy._

 _You? The ice queen?_

 _Yeah. He's been lying. Wasn't who he said he was._

 _Does he hurt you? S?_

 _No. Just weird._

 _Was he bad? Tell the truth! Are you a secret hybristophilic?_

Amelia opened up a new window.

 _Google search: hybristophilic._

And burst out laughing at the information that popped up.

 _No! What is_ wrong _with you?!_

 _Okay, okay, just checking. Keep ya knickers on. ;)_

 _You stay away from my knickers. ;)_

 _Seriously, then. Is he bad? Was he bad?_

 _I think he's trying to reinvent himself into somebody good._

 _You gotta trust your gut._

 _My gut needs antacid._

 _Bottom line: How does he treat you? How does he treat your son?_

She chewed her lip.

 _Decently. Like he's just grateful to have friends._

 _Then either accept him as he is or send him on over! I could use somebody like that in my life!_

Amelia grinned.

Tapped her fingers mindlessly against the keys while she let her mind absorb this advice.

That matched the conclusion her own mind was trying to draw.

And she realized she was almost done thinking. Which was good because it was Wednesday evening.

 _Okay, thanks for the advice. I'm out._

 _Anytime, honey. Ciao._

Then she closed the laptop

And sat staring out the window for a long time.

* * *

 **Hybristophilia: sexual attraction to someone specifically because the person is a violent criminal.**

 **God bless Pinterest for throwing _that_ little MCU joke/definition randomly onto my feed along with a picture of Tom Hiddleston's Loki. *facepalm***

 **And yeah, we all know how this chapter ends. But this spot just seemed right.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, brynerose, and eileanskye for continuing to review. You all sure are dedicated, thank you!**

 **Thanks also to MirandaAnnette144 for adding your support to this story! :)**


	26. Being Real

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Being Real

* * *

Normal seven year olds looked at people and chattered and talked and played quite easily.

Perhaps, according to their exasperated parents, a little _too_ easily.

Even going so far as to befriend complete strangers when the impulse took them.

Simon hardly ever interacted with anyone.

He required a very high volume of trust, consistently cultivated over usually a long span of time.

Even then, he did not often willingly interact.

This frustrated most people.

"Does he _always_ act this way toward adults?"

 _Yep, suck it up, buttercup. I do._

And Amelia Watson had to decide whether to spend her life feeling shame and embarrassment and apologizing for her unusual son . . .

 _So sorry, yes, it's_ you _who must be the most important thing on this planet, of course._

. . . or accept him for what he was and trust other people to learn to behave decently . . .

 _Excuse us, erupting autistic coming through, clear a path, people . . ._

. . . or get the hell out of the way.

She had chosen the later.

Not brazenly throwing her son's autism in people's faces, never that.

She didn't mind bewildered children who just needed to learn . . .

"Mama, that boy is scary."

. . . or their parents if they had sense.

"He's just needs extra help, dear. Let's move out of their way, okay?"

Only . . .

"Pardon us, thank you . . ."

. . . the idiots of the world . . .

"Excuse me, what's _wrong_ with him?"

. . . of which there were entirely too many.

"He's autistic. What's wrong with you?"

Those were the people she was all done with.

* * *

"I'm telling you, you're working some real magic, pulling him away from those grass blades."

Bucky, on the other hand, was absolutely crushing it . . .

 _What an odd phrase, who makes this stuff up?_

. . . with Simon.

She watched them, a small, pleased smile playing on her sun-lit face.

He was a perfect Bucky to her now.

Gentle and kind, maybe haunted and fighting demons.

Definitely not the clean cut proud soldier from the Steve Rogers/Captain America exhibit she had purused online.

But a good man nevertheless.

Most likely made a better man by all the suffering he had so cruelly endured for over seventy years.

 _Dear Lord_.

It still blew her mind, the magnitude of it. The brutality. The mercilessness.

And yet here he was.

And she was glad she knew.

So they could relax. So she could understand. So he could, in some small measure, breathe.

And he was.

Still cagey, still anxious and on high alert all the time.

But better with her and Simon at least.

He didn't dodge her glance anymore.

Veil his eyes under her curiosity so much.

He answered her questions more easily . . .

"I need to ask you a serious question, Bucky."

"Okay."

"Have you ever had a smoothie?"

"Um, no."

"Oh _honey_ , sit down. I'm making you one. Do you have any food allergies?"

. . . and asked his own now that she guessed he felt he could without giving himself away.

"What's a food allergy?"

So things between them were much better.

He glanced up now from his improvised penny play with Simon.

A quick smile flashed through his blue eyes, no more storm cloud blue, but more the beginnings of open ocean than ever before.

And then back down to the boy.

Amelia beamed at them both.

She _adored_ him.

Simon of course. Always.

But Bucky now too.

On his own, the man had done something hardly anyone else had ever bothered to take the time to do.

He had made _Simon_ important.

But at the autistic child's own speed, in a way he could accept.

Not the in-your-face, see-how-supportive-of-your-unfortunate-disability-I'm-being-now-respond-to-me-'cause-I-want-you-to way.

That absolutely never worked on Simon.

But this, what Bucky was doing, was something absolutely magical.

He had asked her first, miracle of miracles, being considerate and respectful to both mother and child in one fell swoop.

 _Oh, Bucky, baby, I think I love you._

With a hopeful expression on his face.

"Can I try?"

And she could have kissed him just for that alone.

 _Oh you lovely metal armed man._

It had seemed a harmless enough venture and so she had acquiesced.

She had still watched him carefully, partially because she couldn't help it and partially because she was curious to see what would happen.

Simon was extremely withdrawn.

But he did respond to human interaction sometimes.

Usually when she hugged him, he let her.

When she kissed his head sometimes he leaned into her affection.

When she picked him up, he put his arms around her neck.

And on very rare occasion, he initiated contact himself.

Amelia Watson was very tough and resilient out of necessity.

But she did cry at times, need to be held.

And there were times, few and far between, when she had been completely distraught.

And her precious little boy had found her as such.

And she had pulled herself together enough to be his mother, his support and provider and constant.

But allowed her emotions to continue to show so he could see her being Real.

Her mother had never done this which, while being well-meaning as to not worry her, had also made Amelia feel that negative emotions were bad and wrong.

Instead of just human.

So she strove, whether or not Simon really understood didn't matter, she should always treat him like he was capable, to be Real.

Controlled, perhaps. Safe to be around, absolutely. Real.

And so he had responded on occasion when salty bitter or mournful tears rolled own her cheeks, in the loveliest way she could imagine.

Her precious son had stared at her, working it out in his self-contained little head.

Before moving toward her.

Climbing up in her lap.

And putting his little arms around her in a most unexpected embrace.

"Oh Simon . . . thank you."

And then, after a handful of momemts, had gone about his way, leaving her to wonder at him.

And know she could, and would, be able to get up.

And keep going.

* * *

Which seemed pretty easy now adays.

She could, and did, manage on her own just fine.

That would always be the case.

Bucky might have admitted his past to her.

She might understand him better.

Enjoy his company.

Try to be a good friend to him.

But . . .

 _Simon, Simon, always Simon . . ._

. . . if he was in fact being hunted and had an unstable mind . . .

 _Freaky deaky trainwreck, nope, nope, nope . . ._

. . . she could _not_ get romantically involved.

Or even deeply emotionally attached . . .

 _. . . Noooopppppe._

. . . to him.

It wasn't even the metal arm, no. That she didn't have a problem with.

In fact . . .

 _Hey, Strong Sexy Man, . . ._

. . . were he a more stable, more permanent addition to their lives . . .

. . . _this one is especially stubborn. I think it requires your shirt_ off _to unstick._

. . . no pickle jars would ever remain unopened in her general vicinity again.

 _Thank you, my dear cyborg. Oomph, here's another one!_

Ever _._

It was his scrambled egg brain that caused her to ignore her burgeoning feelings and compartmentalize him so tightly in the friend zone.

 _Then again, I'm assuming alot. He may not even consider me attractive._

 _Oh shut up, I'm beautiful. On the inside._

So if he ever got his brain right, that metal arm, though it wasn't any kind of fetish for her, wouldn't even give her pause.

Well, except for the occasional precautionary . . .

 _NOBODY ACTIVATE ANY HIGH POWERED_ _ELECTROMAGNETS!_

 _. . ._ warning _._

 _Why? Uh, no reason. My . . . hair gets . . . frizzy._

At times, late at night, she might drowsily entertain fantasies that he would show up not banging the door down, thanks, with his mind clean and clear . . .

 _I'm okay now, Amelia. And I love you._

. . . and she would simply climb him like a tree.

Then she would fall asleep and wake up . . .

 _Damn it._

. . . and decide once again that she was content to be a friend to a man who needed it . . .

 _Nope, nope, nope. Focus, Watson._

. . . and not worry about her reawakening . . .

 _Oh man, I gotta go for a run._

. . . directed desires.

* * *

So now, as she watched him with Simon, she only allowed a few select thoughts any regard.

They were good thoughts though.

 _He is so good with Simon._

 _It seems to be helping him too._

And she was happy.

* * *

 **So another plunge into the whirlwind of Amelia's brain here. Hope you enjoyed!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, tamarabvillar, and Ruby Rosetta Red for reviewing! I feel you all should get medals or something. *flings Chucky Cheese medallions at you* It's the best I've got. ;)**

 **Coming up, Ana is all of us. Well, some of us. ;)**


	27. Now Who Has a Scrambled Egg Brain

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Now Who Has a Scrambled Egg Brain

* * *

Ana, on the other hand, had no such reservations.

"Amelia, tell me about the man in the park!"

They were sitting outside a little cafe, drinking coffee.

 _Oh boy._

Amelia cast her gaze into the overcast sky above the stylishly aged buildings.

Searching for a suitable reply.

"He's . . ."

 _A hundred year old metal armed ex-psycho assassin on the lam from every government on the planet._

 _A sad trash hobo._

 _A beautiful, beautiful guy._

 _A Bucky._

". . . a friend."

Ana exuded self confidence.

"I have many male friends . . .

 _Lovers, honey. Be honest._

". . . and none of them look like that!"

Amelia affixed an innocent expression to her face.

"Like what?"

 _Do tell._

The attractive blond tossed back her stylishly bleached hair.

"He's so attractive. He could be an American movie star!"

Amelia chuckled, enjoying the fresh air and sunshine.

The light, adult conversation.

"Tell me more about him!"

Amelia smiled vaguely, reflexively trying to tamp down her warm wash of emotions at the thought of Bucky Barnes.

"He's nice. Quiet. He's very good with Simon."

Ana sipped her coffee.

"How is he with _you_?"

The question could not have been more pointed if the woman had sketched a phallic image on her crinkled napkin.

Amelia tried not to blush.

"Oh, it's not like that. We're just friends."

Ana raised her eyebrows in interest.

"Ah."

Amelia could practically see the wheels in her friend's head turning.

 _Uh oh._

Ana was a very . . . passionate person.

As in, she would crawl all over Bucky in a moment's notice.

And Bucky would probably collapse and die from the stress of wondering if she was actually a secret government operative.

Plus, she hated to admit it, she didn't want Ana . . . touching him. Like that.

 _Not if I can't._

 _Shut up, you._

"I don't think he's looking for a relationship right now."

She tried to be casual but Ana grinned wickedly around her coffee cup anyway.

"Amelia Watson, are you trying to save him for _yourself_?"

 _Um, no? Not technically?_

"No," she refuted, waving a vague hand. "He's, uh, he's . . ."

 _Think fast, honey. This is for Bucky_.

". . . gay."

Which wasn't _technically_ a lie.

He _could_ be.

He hadn't made any moves on her yet (most guys usually did relatively quickly) and she had never seen him really look at any woman at all.

 _Of course, he doesn't really look at anybody much, does he?_

And they hadn't really gotten around to that particular discussion yet.

 _And this one time, in Budapest-_

 _Dude, do you like to kiss guys?_

And the Romanian beauty across from her positively lit up with delight.

"Oooh . . . really?"

 _Oh lord._

* * *

"I told her you were gay."

The mild confusion on his scruffy face was priceless.

Amelia had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from bursting out laughing.

And valiantly tried to defend herself.

"Well, I had to say _something_ before she pounced on you and you throated-kicked her!"

She meant it as _mostly_ a joke but apparently she had gone and stuck her foot in it, the comment hitting a little too close to home for him.

Because the hurt puppy dog eyes were back and now she felt guilty.

Even though . . .

"Sorry."

. . . that didn't make it any less true.

"But I did think she would be too much for you."

 _True._

"And besides, I wasn't lying."

 _Technically._

"I don't know if you're gay or not."

 _Wink, wink._

 _Nudge, nudge._

 _Like boobs?_

He had ducked away from her under that cap again . . .

 _Awww, goodbye, Eyes._

. . . and seemed to be concentrating on his gloved hands again.

"Gay means . . ."

The man with the sky in his eyes quietly interrupted her.

"I know what gay means."

Was he offended she had effectively cock-blocked him from a potential romantic tryst with a hot, modern woman?

A chance to sow his wild oats? Play with the cookies? Spread some bread and butter?

 _Why are so many sex euphemisms about foo-_

"You're right. It would have been too much. Thanks."

Which now sent her worrying she had insulted him by insinuating he was in no position to carry on any sort of romantic relationship based on his . . . preexisting condition.

Of being brainwashed into a merciless killing machine at the drop of a hat, that was.

 _Well, he's not. A handsome face doesn't trump mental instability._

His eyes were clear and blue and unencumbered by all the thoughts and worries that had been running wild in her head over for the last several eons/seconds as he looked directly at her.

And spoke. In typical Bucky fashion.

Quiet. Calm. Honest.

Now, anyway.

"I'm not gay."

The look in his eyes he probably didn't even know was there suddenly made her insides cramp pleasantly and she felt a rush of heat flush her face.

 _Care to test that theory? I'd be a great lab assistant._

 _Oh crap. Now I'm neurotic and turned on._

 _I gotta go for another run._

* * *

But instead of doing that, she took Simon home to decompress in his nook.

And her to dig out her Box of Jack.

Stuffed behind the plastic boxes of sleepwear and undergarments and socks and other sundries she kept neatly organized underneath her bed frame.

The Box of Jack.

It was an Adidas shoe box, carried all the way over with her when she had fled the States in search of her sanity.

She opened it and caught her breath.

Handwritten letters, inappropriately funny Valentine and anniversary cards.

Big smiling pictures and inside joke momentos.

Her engagement and wedding rings.

She clinked them together between her thumb and forefinger, light bouncing off their shiny rounded surfaces.

 _I'm not trying to forget him. I'm not. He's a part of me. And that's okay._

She wasn't trying to do or be anything. She was just trying to live and breathe.

Decently. Honestly.

 _Simon deserves that much._

 _She_ deserved that much.

Amelia Watson was well aware that she was a grown woman floundering in some school girl crush on a man who couldn't be depended on in the long run. Couldn't be a permanent part of her life.

She was somewhere between trying to accept that and trying to make sure he didn't undo her with his imbalance.

 _Crazy makes you crazy._

 _But he doesn't want to be crazy._

 _Well, hell, neither do I._

She thought she was maintaining okay, considering her long sustained abstainance from men.

 _Just more trouble than they're worth._

Maybe one day she would meet a man worth the trouble of redistributing her life for.

But other than a casual friendship with the hundred year old . . .

 _Not really though. He's probably closer to his mid thirties if you only count when he was awake._

 _Well, that's not helping at all._

 _Oh shut up._

. . . Bucky Barnes, she just hadn't run across a man good enough for Simon.

And her.

 _I miss you, Jack. I love you._

She replaced her lost life in the box.

Replaced the box under the bed.

Looked at Simon laying on his side, facing away from her.

His rounded back moving in even, rythymic movements with his breathing.

Then Amelia closed her eyes and centered herself.

She didn't pray so much anymore, asking for this and begging for that.

She used to, beg and plead and pray for a change.

A fix.

A freaking miracle to fix her shambles of a life.

No giant finger reached down out of the skies and thumped her on the head.

It had made her resent God in her helpless misery.

Resent Him and hate Him along with everything else in her life.

Then she decided that . . .

 _God isn't a short order cook in a diner._

. . . she would stop whining, build on what was already inside her . . .

 _Placed there by God? I don't know. I gotta stop reading Dan Brown._

. . . and do what she could.

And the rest that she couldn't fix, well . . .

 _Nobody's perfect, not even Tom Hanks._

. . . she would just let it go.

Now she focused herself toward what she could do.

 _I'm grateful for my life. I'm grateful for my son._

 _I'm grateful for my family and friends._

 _I'm grateful for Bucky Barnes._

 _I will do my best to be good for others._

 _I will do my best to be good for myself._

 _I will do my best to be good for Simon._

She spoke these thoughts on in her mind for several minutes.

Reminding herself of what she had.

And deciding what she was going to do with her life.

And when she was done, she opened her eyes

And felt calmer.

And clearer.

She felt better.

Then she got up and moved on with her day.

* * *

 **Hello! I apologize for the pause in posting. I went back to work and it was so overwhelming and irritating it broke my creativity for a little while.**

 **But I think I'm back now and ready to continue this story if you haven't lost interest. :)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, OnYourLeft107, and Fantastically Enthusiastic Guest for reviewing and I hope you're still around for more.**

 **Next up, time for a sleepover!**


	28. Winter Soldier Etiquette 101

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Winter Soldier Etiquette 101

* * *

She was struck by how peaceful he looked.

All the tension and long carried anxiety had drained away.

Leaving his scruffy face smooth and unlined.

She had been reading The Velveteen Rabbit to Simon.

"He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him Real, and when you are Real, shabbiness doesn't matter."

It was an old favorite, a tale he seemed to enjoy.

And one she enjoyed reading to him.

Full of wisdom and love and enduring hope.

"But he never knew that it really was his own bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be Real. The end."

With the story concluded once more, she had laid it aside,

And hugged her boy.

And he had let her, even going so far as to put his arms around her response.

And she had been happy.

She had closed her eyes and let the contact linger. Just long enough to enjoy her child without irritating his sensitive nature.

Then let him go with a content smile.

Tucked his blanket gently around him.

Made sure for the _fifth_ time the darn penny was in its correct place.

Turned out the light.

Pulled the door almost to.

* * *

And now here she was.

Gazing speculatively upon the hunted ex-psycho assassin man out of time.

Zonked right out on her ancient couch.

His head was tilted back slightly and to the left.

Eyes closed, long dark lashes brushing the tender skin underneath.

Line of his mouth relaxed, defined jaw finally unclenched.

Long dark hair falling back a little from his sleeping face, revealing the curve of an ear lobe and the side of a long, lean neck.

Breathing, deep and regular, muscular chest rising and falling evenly.

Finally unconstricted by the ever looming panic of potential discovery, being found out.

His entire garbed frame was finally, _finally_ relaxed.

Metal gloved hand loosely folded in his lap, human one splayed on the couch beside him.

He looked so exhausted and his entire being was practically emanating relief at the unexpected reprieve.

And she was happy.

She was also . . .

 _There's a man sleeping on my couch._

 _There's an attractive man sleeping on my couch._

 _There's an attractive, severely unstable man sleeping on my couch._

. . . slightly ill at ease.

Bucky Barnes awake and in full control of his facilities would _never_ hurt her.

Bucky Barnes asleep and suddenly startled, well, that another possibility altogether.

As peaceful and endearing as the entire scene was, almost magical and enchanted in its romantically inviting undertones, Amelia Watson wasn't going to reach out and stroke a gentle hand against his cheek.

Lean forward and brush her lips softly against his.

Or even attempt to ease his maned head down more comfortably onto the arm of the couch.

Because though the scene before her might seem like the opportune moment for a romantic liason . . .

 _Soft and warm, just like she knew his lips would be. She grazed them lightly, her eyes slipping closed-_

. . . he was, in fact, Bucky Barnes.

 _And suddenly gasped for air as a metal hand clamped mercilessly around her throat, cutting off her windpipe._

The man with the Winter Soldier locked somewhere inside of him.

 _Her eyes flew open to see not the gentle visage of Bucky, penny friend of Simon._

A mind fractured man with the metal arm designed for destruction.

 _But the cold, dead, flat eyes of a soul-less killer._

The man, if nothing else, who sometimes woke in panic attacks, convinced he had been found out.

 _"Bucky," she wheezed desperately. "Please . . ."_

And that they were coming for him.

 _The eyes did not blink, they did not shift, they did not hesitate._

And so with all this under consideration . . .

 _As her vision dimmed against the throbbing in her oxygen deprived brain, Amelia Watson knew she had screwed up, was paying the ultimate price for her flights of fancy._

. . . she instead gingerly picked up the couch blanket, shook it out a little.

 _And could only think, Simon, Simon._

And laid it lightly touching his human hand.

 _Simon was vulnerable now._

His human hand that twitched, just a little at the contact.

 _And nothing could save him, protect him from this._

Then she silently backed away.

 _The cold brutality of Death in human form, this monster._

Not out of fear. Or subjugation. Or even timidity.

 _This thing that wore Bucky's face. But was not him at all._

But a healthy respect for a man with a lot on his mind.

 _She scrabbled ineffectually against him as she faded away and lost consciousness,_

And muscle to match.

 _And her final dwindling thought was that she had made a terrible, stupid mistake and there was no reset button._

Because nothing was worth finding out what could happen.

 _And she was going to die._

Amelia Watson simply let her friend sleep.

Leaving a low light on so he would not awake confused in the dark, Amelia left the room, returning to her own.

And prayed formlessly that he would be at peace.

For himself.

For Simon.

For her.

 _Good night, sweet prince. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest._

 _Even though you're not Hamlet._

 _And, you know, you're alive._

Then she tossed and turned in her own bed all night long.

Not in fear. Not even in feverish thoughts of forbidden passions.

Just a whispering unsettling that accompanies a blatant change in nighttime routine.

* * *

In the light of morning, she saw he had indeed wrapped himself up in the blanket and lain down on the much more comfortable arm of the couch during the night.

And was now still peaceful and still resting.

 _God, he really doesn't ever sleep, does he?_

And she was happy.

Happy enough to . . .

 _This calls for a celebration. I'm breaking out the bacon._

. . . rustle up some grub, as they used to say.

 _Whoever they are._

* * *

She didn't try to be stealthy. That would probably awaken him quicker than a shotgun blast.

 _And we're all doing so well._

So she just quietly set out the required cookery and ingredients.

 _I'm waking the men up with food. How very domestic. Ha._

And soon enough . . .

"It's been so long since I had them."

. . . they were discussing eggs.

"Scrambled it is! And you'll love 'em!"

Like normal people.

She sent him off to the bathroom and he went.

Hair disheveled and mouth no doubt all morning breathy.

She watched him go, a small secret smile on her face.

He was a grown, capable, tough man, no doubt about that.

But all men, even grown, capable, tough men, were half bumbling baby bears in the first few minutes of consciousness.

Even super serumed super soldier ones.

And she was happy.

* * *

Somewhat more awake, he had managed to mildly reprimand her for allowing him a solid night's sleep . . .

". . . not safe to be around."

A thought still more than a little morose.

. . . on her comfy well worn couch.

Though she really understood.

 _Yes, it did occur to me. A little._

And she nodded her aqcuicesence.

"We won't make it a habit then."

And closed her eyes without further comment.

 _I am grateful for my life._

 _I am grateful for Simon._

 _I am going to be a good mother and friend today._

Then she opened her eyes to the man in her sitting at her kitchen table.

Looking at her with curious blue eyes as she smiled freely at him.

And she decided she felt no need at all to explain herself.

Only . . .

"Dig in!"

. . . a need to feed.

It was good. Of course it was good.

 _Bacon and eggs, baby. Yeah._

It was nice.

Just sitting and eating and being together.

No pressure. No agenda. No weird tension.

Well . . .

 _You are pretty adorable, Bucky Barnes. Don't snore into my orange juice there._

. . . not much.

And then, another small miracle occured.

"Good morning, Simon!"

Her sweet little boy, clutching his blue Linus blanket, crawled up into her lap.

Quietly. Calmly. Peacefully.

Laid his head on her shoulder.

And offered The Winter Soldier his bacon.

 _Well, awesome. My ovaries just exploded._

 _I think his just did too._

And she was happy.

* * *

 **I think the shabbiness quote from The Velveteen Rabbit is an incredible statement about taking physical appearance into perspective and accepting ourselves as being lovable as we are.**

 **So I just had to share it with you all. :)**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, brynerose, tamarabvillar, Sassiebone, and Ruby Rosetta Red for reviewing! And thanks for your graciousness regarding my temporary lapse in posting, sweeties.**

 **Next up, Amelia takes her boys on a field trip. And some other stuff.**


	29. Life's Lemons

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Life's Lemons

* * *

He was leaving.

Well, not _now_.

But he would.

Eventually.

If she believe his cockamamey story.

The one where he was a ex-psycho assassin who had been tortured and experimented on and brainwashed until he had become a merciless killing machine wanted by any government on the planet that could get their hands on him.

When he wasn't socked away in cryofreeze.

The one where he was formerly a decorated, highly respected member of the Howling Commandos.

Alongside Steve Rogers, aka, Captain America.

During World War II.

In the nineteen-forties.

Which she did.

She believed.

As crazy as it sounded, she believed every single word.

It was easy, to be honest.

The arm.

The haunt in his eyes.

It was all true.

And if all that was true, then so was the rest.

He liked eggs.

He found peace in stillness.

Until it became deafening and crushing.

And one day, most likely without any warning at all, he would vanish from her existence.

Up and gone.

As if he had never been.

Leaving her to eventually wonder if she had made him up.

If she had quietly gone crazy for a while.

Conjured up a good man, just right for her and Simon, save for the whole brainwashed assassin thing of course, out of thin air.

Since he didn't technically exist as he was on any record anywhere.

And for a moment, she hated him.

 _Just like Jack. Just leave. Leave me here. Alone._

 _You bastard, you're bastards, you're both bastards._

But they weren't bastards.

They were good men. Very good men.

Good men caught up in situations they couldn't fully control.

And sometimes life just sucked.

She clenched her jaw, lips pressed tight together to keep all her roiling thoughts and words and emotions inside.

 _I hate you. I hate this. I hate it all._

Then Amelia Watson calmed down.

Took a deep breath.

 _You knew this already. The moment you believed who he was, you knew this was part of it._

 _Before he even said._

 _Doesn't make it suck less._

Then she took another deep breath. Channeled her inner Rafiki.

 _So, what are you going to do?_

And looked up.

He was sitting there, blue eyes looking all guilty . . .

 _So help me God, Bucky Barnes, if you start apologizing again . . ._

. . . and penitent as could be.

 _Dammit, Bucky, stop it._

She knew he blamed himself for getting close and affecting her. Probably figured things would be for the best if he just disappeared from her now.

And she had considered it.

For about four and a half seconds.

Before tossing that selfish, careless notion right out the window.

 _Don't be a whiny, impulsive brat, Amelia._

 _You'll regret it._

It would hurt when he was gone, probably more than she could anticipate.

But, hell, _life_ hurt.

And this, as it was now, was good for them, all of them.

Simon had a friend.

Bucky had a friend.

And Amelia had a friend.

And there was no absolute set timeline to life anyway.

So that was all they really could ask for, right?

Good nows?

So she cleared herself as best as she could.

 _I'm not being fake. I'm . . . choosing my responses._

 _Because I can, dammit._

"Well, you're here now," she chose to say. "Simon doesn't have school today. Want to come with us to the Geology Museum?"

He smiled then.

A painful smile to look at, so relieved and guiltily full of wanted hope.

She wanted to shake the world that had made him have to be this. Her too.

"That sounds nice."

But was also still glad he was there.

 _Okay, buddy. But no heartstrings, okay? I need a break._

* * *

Rocks.

That should have been safe enough.

 _I mean, they're rocks, right? They're boring. Mundane._

 _They're freakin' rocks._

And it was important for Simon to routinely experience new things within reason.

Plus, he seemed to actually like them.

And Amelia liked making Simon happy.

So they walked and she talked and they looked at the rocks.

While Bucky . . .

"Look, Simon, mine flowers . . ."

. . . looked at everything else.

Doors, windows, wall divides.

 _Come on, sweetie. This is called exposure therapy._

He was very subtle and controlled.

Better than she had witnessed the first time they had met.

Not as at ease as she hoped he would be in the future.

He followed along with them. Responded quietly when she occasionally directed words at him.

He looked at the displays.

But he looked at them as if he were searching for something.

 _No deadly operatives here so far as I can tell, Bucky._

 _Just rocks that got pooped on by dinosaurs._

And so she continued on, decided that she could provide the grounding both Simon and Bucky needed . . .

 _Although I may need a nap when we're done._

. . . by sheer force of will and projected normalcy alone.

And it worked.

Mostly.

Her companions seemed to relatively enjoy themselves.

Bucky even going so far as to make a joke of all things . . .

"It's not like they're going anyplace."

. . . when Simon wore out and Amelia decided to was time to bid adieu . . .

"Well, I think that's enough rocks for now. How about you?"

. . . to the Museum of Really Hard Stuff.

* * *

 _You are_ killing _me, Smalls._

First he had turned out to be a good man doing his best in an extremely bad situation.

Then he had positively interacted with Simon on Simon's own terms. Independently.

More recently he had slept on her couch like a tired, scruffy, puppy dog angel.

Eaten breakfast enjoyably and appreciably, seeming like he belonged there.

And even taking it upon himself to wash and dry the dishes thereafter.

 _I hope his hand doesn't rust._

And she'd had to stifle the giggles.

He'd managed an indoor sparsely populated public arena relatively well.

And now, as if that wasn't enough . . .

 _Get him, baby! I mean, Bucky._

He had taken it upon himself to shut up heckler Jones . . .

 _Whoa._

. . . who had been working her last nerve . . .

 _What, my boobs? Slightly saggy after breastfeeding, sure you want a peek?_

 _My butt? Well, not exercise freak tight, not bad, a few dimples, why do you ask . . ._

. . . for more than a few weeks now.

The problem was . . .

 _My hero!_

. . . though Bucky was the self-appointed Popeye to her less shrill and scrawny Olive Oil . . .

 _I bet he would get that reference._

. . Bucky Barnes and Amelia Watson were just friends.

Just. Friends.

Friends.

And even though everything about him was screaming 'knight in shining armor' . . .

 _Oh my goodness, and there's goes the unassuming, hands in the pockets, slightly hunched walk._

. . . he was not good 'relationship' material and they both . . .

 _Surely_.

. . . knew it and there was no getting around that.

Simon, having witnessed the entire confrontation, was still maintaining calm radio silence.

A small miracle she decided not to push too far . . .

"Come on then, Superman. Off to the Fortress of Solitude."

And the dawning smile on his handsome face was enough.

And they headed upstairs.

* * *

Bucky's toothbrush was blue.

It stood in the holder alongside Amelia's green one and Simon's yellow one.

It was clean and neat and dry.

And out of place.

For over seven years now, there had only been two.

Hers and Simon's.

In her parents' house in her and Simon's bathroom.

Now here in Romania, in Uncle Nick's quirky little apartment.

Only ever two.

And before that, still only two.

Hers and Jack's.

Frequently, only hers when Jack was deployed.

He had prefered orange.

Now, for the first time, three.

Temporary, it was just temporary.

An extra toothbrush out of the pack she always kept one of in case of emergency.

For when life happened.

An accidental plunge into the toliet.

Digestive illness.

Day to day wearing out.

So she kept extra.

Here was one.

Left by a person in need of one.

It didn't mean anything.

Amelia looked at the blue toothbrush a long time, getting lost in the molded plastic and rubber strip and nylon bristles.

Then raised her eyes to her own reflection in the small mirror.

Her eyes. Blue just like millions of other people in the world. Surrounded by a not unattractive but decidedly ordinary, run of the mill face.

There were small thin lines beginning to introduce themselves around her eyes and mouth.

Barely discernable to anyone but her and requiring close inspection at that.

She didn't mind them.

She didn't cover them and she didn't think about them.

Much.

Her hair. Dark and thick and slightly wavy.

She was okay.

She didn't know if the toothbrush was or not.

Then Amelia Watson left it alone.

And went to bed.

* * *

 **Make of this chapter what you will.**

 **And let me know, ok?**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, and Ruby Rosetta Red for always reviewing! I really appreciate it so much.**

 **I wonder if anyone is interested in more Amelia backstory?**


	30. Long is the Way

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Long is the Way

* * *

"Jack! Jack!"

She ran after him, screaming his name.

Or tried to.

He was so close, he was right there.

Only an inch or two in front of her.

She thrust out an arm, stretched all the way out, fingers extended.

Reaching, out into the space where he was.

Only to swipe at empty air.

Because he was out of reach.

Just out of reach

By a breadth.

"Come on, babe!"

He grinned, all blond crew cut and dashing green eyes.

"Hurry up, Amy!"

She stumbled, yanking her bare feet out of sucking, grasping mud.

Pulling her down, slowing her chase.

"Jack! Jack, come back! Wait!"

But he was getting further ahead of her, she was lagging behind.

No matter how fast she tried to move, her limbs were slow and heavy, weighted and clumsy.

And she was lost, wandering.

And it was dark, so dark, and she couldn't see him anymore and the trees and mountains and night animals were closing in.

She was crying, she was sobbing and whimpering and lost.

Jack was gone and she couldn't even see the stars and she was never going to be found . . .

"Amy. Amy, honey, it's time to go, sweetie, come on . . ."

She opened her eyes and saw her mother's worried face suspended above her.

". . . come on, sweetie, come on now . . ."

And she was shaking, so relieved the dream was over.

So she tried to obey, tried to get up, tried to sit, to stand.

But her eyelids were heavy and she couldn't quite work her limbs out for herself enough to move.

 _This goes here, that goes there, no that's not right-_

"Amy, hurry. You're don't want to keep them waiting, come on now, don't be rude . . ."

And she finally managed to Frankstein to her feet.

Only to discover that she had no clothes on, she was completely naked save for a skimpie pair of panties.

 _Oh crap, Mom, wait-_

"Hurry, Amy, let's go . . ."

 _But there's people out there, don't you think they'll notice . . ._

Her mother opened the door and Amy stumbled through it into the the freezing cold, cramped room beyond.

It was jammed with people, well dressed with their hair done and holding their pristinely white hankerchiefs.

Dabbing their well-to-do tears, wiping away shallow sorrow.

"Everyday another poor soul. Such a pointless waste . . ."

They turned to her at once and she cringed, desperately trying to cover herself.

Hide her exposed skin, protect herself from craning necks of the faceless mass.

 _How could I have been so careless_. _So unprepared_.

She couldn't back up, only go forward.

Into the murmuring crowd.

"So young, too young," one woman said. "He had so much more time . . ."

"What will she do now?" Another one spoke. As if she couldn't hear. "It's clear she isn't ready for this."

She looked around desperately for her mother.

Who was gone.

 _Mom? Mommy? Momma?_

Somewhere in the smudgy misty faces.

"Here dear," some thrice removed great aunt or some such murmured.

Thrusting a spotless white square of silk into her hand. Hardly big enough for ladylike sneeze.

"You really should have dressed for the occasion. I mean, it is a funeral, after all."

Amy took it nervelessly, clutching it to her bare breasts. Trying to hide herself, hide her vulnerability.

The crowd was parting before her, a little at a time.

"Poor dear, and pregnant too. What a life for a child to grow up without a father."

 _What do I do, what do I do?_

"If it's his at all, you know how those army wives can be. Might secretly be glad he's dead."

And there it was.

Dark, glossy wood, silver handles, expensive and homely.

And utterly terrifying.

She moved toward the casket without moving her feet, as if pulled by an invisible force.

Arriving there only to find it was huge, too tall, she had to stretch on her tiptoes to peer up over the rim.

And see him.

Jack.

Her Jack.

Her dead Jack.

Face torn apart and bloody.

Missing fingers and an eyesocket.

Smoking holes still seeping gore through his army shirt.

 _No no no no no no . . ._

And then she started screaming, screaming long and loud and wailing, as if her soul as being ripped apart.

Torn asunder. Shredded into a million pieces.

Which it was, as she bonelessly crumpled down, still naked, before the shrine of her beloved dead husband.

Who should have been . . .

". . . scene? I mean, I know she's sad but some people . . ."

. . . alive and with her always.

* * *

It hadn't really happened like that, it was only the way she dreamed it later.

Jack hadn't run away from her into some lost dark woods.

She hadn't shown up late to the funeral.

Or naked.

Or even on any of her mother's proffered anxiety pills.

Just her.

Long long hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

Simple black modest dress.

Hands primly folded in front of her six month pregnant belly.

Simple black flats.

Very little makeup.

And blue, shellshocked, tearless eyes.

Everybody had been very nice and caring and considerate and sincere.

There hadn't even been anything in the casket.

Because there had been nothing left to send home.

Just a flag and his dogtags.

So it felt like it couldn't possibly be real.

She had not cried, she had not screamed.

She had only sat silently, staring miles past the floor.

Parents on either side of her, their arms protectively around her.

No in-laws or siblings down the row. Just a few lone friends.

Jack, an only child, had been raised in the foster system.

And most of his buddies were in the military and currently deployed overseas.

So really, it only felt like her. Only her and the empty casket.

Staring at her.

Taking up the whole room.

Her entire life.

And her.

Quiet. Still. Polite. Numb.

All in accordance to the unspoken, unwritten behavior bylaws of Midwestern American . . .

 _And number of acts shall be three. The Visitation, The Service, and The Graveside. Not one nor two. Four is right out. Thy number shall be three . . ._

. . . funeral subculture.

And when she had gone home afterward, lost and directionless, the nightmares had begun consuming her.

The long, dark, endless nights. The trapped and floundering afternoon pregnancy dozes.

It had gotten so bad for the following weeks, she started refusing sleep.

And had feared she would go crazy.

"Here honey, have some warm milk," her well-meaning mother would say. "It'll help you sleep."

"No, Mom, I don't _want_ to sleep! I _can't_!"

"Honey, you're going to hurt yourself if you don't."

"I'm going to _kill_ myself if I _do_!"

Collapsing into sleep only when she couldn't keep her migraine-thudded eyes open anymore.

Only to find herself . . .

"Jack! Jack!"

. . . trapped in her own personal hell all over again.

* * *

One day she'd lain down for a nap right before a doctor's appointment.

 _Why am I still having a baby? Doesn't it know I have nothing left to give it?_

And set her alarm.

 _Just half an hour, just so I can drive without falling asleep._

And when the alarm clock had beeped her awake, she had opened her eyes easily.

And it had slowly dawned on her.

 _I didn't have one of those dreams._

She had dreamed. Something weird about cooking eggs on toast and dropping them on her red painted toenails.

But she had awoken right.

The first time around.

 _I'm gonna try that again._

* * *

It had helped and she had stopped slowly going crazy.

And started being able to, from time to time, think clearly enough . . .

 _This baby needs me. I gotta get better._

. . . to start the long process of sorting herself out.

Which was good.

Because her baby . . .

 _Simon. That's what I'll name you. I like that._

. . . did need her.

More than she would ever . . .

 _Hi, baby. I have no idea what I'm doing but I'm going to love you and I'm going to figure it out, I promise, okay?_

. . . know.

* * *

So when Bucky told her about his dreams . . .

" . . . nightmares . . . I can't wake up . . ."

. . . she had known . . .

 _Bucky, baby, I'm the friend to have. I got your back._

. . . just what to do.

"Alarm clock."

She told him a little, skimmed the surface.

"Hang on a second."

And dug hers out of a drawer in her room.

She only ever used her phone now but had somehow managed to forget the extra timepiece was around.

"Okay, so . . ."

Until he had needed it.

She had shown him how to load the batteries and set the time and the alarm features.

Mr. Former Super Psycho Asassin didn't require much tutelage.

It being a simple alarm clock and all.

Still, he walked him through it so she would be certain he would know how.

And he let her.

* * *

The daisies were beautiful.

 _Oh you doll, you._

So was the small smile edging the corners of his mouth.

 _You know this means we're practically married now, right?_

And she'd given it back easily.

 _No, seriously, I'm so glad you're okay._

And then the big, bad, wanted fugitive with the death metal arm spoke.

"Thank you, Amelia."

And it broke her heart that he could be who he was . . .

"You're welcome, Bucky."

. . . after all he had been through.

* * *

 **"Long is the way and hard, that out of hell leads up to the light." -John Milton, Paradise Lost**

 **And if you're a Morgan Freeman fan, you just read that in his voice.**

 **Also, a nod to Monty Python and the Holy Grail there later on.**

 **;)**

 **Okay, so thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, eileanskye, DinahRay, Ruby Rosetta Red, Kind Guest (no problem, and good luck with your guy person shipping out, very difficult for both of you, sounds like), and tamarabvillar for reviewing!**

 **And good eclipse viewing if you're in 'the path'. If not, well, half of these peeps are thinking the world's gonna end but I haven't finished the story yet so no!**

 **Next up, more sleeping disturbances.**


	31. You Pick Me Up, Believer

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

You Pick Me Up, Believer

* * *

Every so often, Simon Watson, sweet little balanced mute autistic seven year old, totally lost his shit.

Whether because he was tired from the day . . .

"It's okay, Simon . . ."

. . . the Metro pushed all his wrong buttons . . .

"It's okay, honey . . ."

. . . or he couldn't find his damn penny . . .

"Lord love a duck, it's _okay_ . . ."

. . . something caused him to absolutely snap.

"Baby, Jesus, now you've got me calling the deities . . ."

It happened much less often now that Amelia had worked out his dietary guidelines . . .

 _I'm gonna chew that chair down to the nubs if I don't get a ham sandwich here, people-_

. . . his best daily schedule . . .

 _Ugh, why does five a.m. have to be so . . . five a.m.-ish._

. . . and practiced preemptive soothing techniques as well.

He had also grown some too.

The teachers at his school helped . . .

". . . weighted jacket . . ."

. . . her own feeling of consistency and autonomy had helped balance out her previously raging emotions.

 _You can do this, Amelia. One step. Then the next._

But still, sometimes the crap hit the fan.

Metaphorically, so far.

It hadn't always been that way though.

* * *

Brian's chest was nice, with a scattering of hair, just like man's should be.

It was nice, to be with a man again.

Amy drifted here and there, feeling relaxed and drowsy after a bout of really cathartic . . .

 _Well, I went did it and didn't immediately burn in hell. Yet._

. . . sex.

She was laying there, glad she had shaved . . .

 _Two weeks, jeez, I've never done that before._

 _Of course, I've only ever been with J-, um, one man before._

. . . her legs before their date.

"You seemed to like that all right, huh, Ames."

She stirred.

 _Ames? When did I become Ames?_

"Uh . . ."

 _Ames?_

". . . yeah, I did. Bry."

He chuckled, sounding very self-satisfied.

"Yeah, me too. Man, you've got a hot ass. Even for a mom."

And Amy . . .

 _Excuse me?_

. . . realized she didn't entirely like the way he was talking to her now that they'd done the deed.

 _Hang on there, Cassanova. I'm not your prize sow. And it wasn't_ that _good. I mean, I didn't even . . ._

"You know," Brian said, suddenly sounding awkward and shifty. "I've got, uh . . ."

But before he could tell her all about his 'early meeting', an earth shattering scream air-sirened from the adjoining room.

Her head practically bounced off the mattress as her nocturnal lighting person jerked up.

"What the hell is _that_?!"

She was already on her feet. Grabbing her robe and heading toward Simon's room.

"It's my kid," she called back over her shoulder. "He, uh, gets upset sometimes."

She had told him about Simon, had even tentatively introduced them.

Brian standing awkwardly as Simon ignored him in favor of some blocks.

She had briefly mentioned autism.

But had not gone into specifics.

Primarily, _these_ specifics.

Then she forgot all about Brian, his nicely blond, hairy chest, and the fact that he might not be the good idea she had originally figured him to be.

Because Simon, three years old and an anomaly she hadn't anticipated . . .

"Baby, baby, it's okay, baby . . ."

. . . was screaming and flailing . . .

 _Oh son of a bitch, that hurts-_

. . . bashing his head against her shoulder as she knelt before him, trying to somehow comfort a child that in the Dark Ages would have been labeled as demon possessed.

She had bitten her tongue more than once during one of these sessions as the reverberations of tiny little Simon's body bashed out an exhausting physical beat against hers.

"What the hell's _wrong_ with him?!"

She glared at the half naked man standing in the doorway.

"I told you, he gets upset."

She had to raise her voice to be heard.

And dear sweet Brian jerked back a little.

As if offended.

Then crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Maybe he just needs his ass whipped to straighten up his behavior."

 _Common misconception, stupid. That doesn't work on autistics._

"That won't help," she admonished. "It's not like that."

He huffed, shook his tousled blond head, a scowl on his face.

"Just go back in the other room," she directed. "I'll-"

He waved a vague dismissive hand at their disturbing little scene, that hand vibrating apart into multiples as Simon smashed his head into her bruising body.

"No, I'm getting out of here. I didn't sign up for this shit."

At least that's what she thought he said as he turned away.

To presumably gather his clothes and flee.

Leaving her there to kneel before her hysterical son as he shrieked and howled uncontrollably.

Simon, Simon, Simon, _HONEY_ -"

She lost control then, crying and sobbing herself.

It took a long time for them both to calm down.

And even then . . .

 _God I could use a drink. Where's Dad's secret vodka?_

* * *

Her mother practically blanched when her twenty-seven year old daughter . . .

"Oh, Amy, you can't be so loose with your morals."

. . . related the the tale to her . . .

 _Yes, Mom, I screwed up, I get that now._

. . . later.

"People will think you're a slut."

 _Wow, Mom. Just . . .wow._

And as for Simon's "little outburst" and dear Brian's . . .

"Oh, that's unfortunate. I liked him. I thought he was gentleman."

. . . abrupt departure . . .

"Well, it is alot to take in, Amy. You know men aren't equipped to deal with that kind of behavior-"

 _Oh my god, you're_ defending _him?!_

. . . Amy had rarely felt so ashamed and helplessly furious in her life . . .

"Fix your robe, dear."

 _Oh my effing shit, I have got to get . . ._

"No need to be immodest."

 _. . . out of here._

Her mother had not asked how Simon was.

Perhaps she, knowing her daughter's chosen love for the boy, had simply assumed he was fine.

Or perhaps she had forgotten.

* * *

She couldn't even think about what she had wanted to talk to Bucky about anymore.

Simon's screams drowned out any and every thought she might have had during any point in her entire life other than _damn_ , _not_ _again_.

She had raced to his attic room, jerking her hair up and out of the way as she dashed.

It had only taken Simon yanking out a few fistfuls of her hair on several early occasion for her to cut it shorter . . .

"Oh, I suppose that's nice enough, dear. If that's what you like."

. . . and start wearing an elastic hair band around her wrist . . .

"On the other hand, I'm not sure about that black band though, Amy. Wouldn't you like something prettier and more stylish?"

 _Well damn, Mom, you're right. I forgot to order the_ stylish _autistic kid._

. . . at all times.

So here she was again and it wasn't the penny and it wasn't the Metro.

Sometimes she didn't know what it was.

Maybe his dreams were just too bright and too colorful and loud.

She supposed . . .

 _I love you, I love you, I'm here and I love you no matter what . . ._

. . . she'd never find out.

Then she caught sight of him vaguely through the dim, filtering light.

Him.

Another man.

Bucky.

Hunkered by the steps. Kneeling down on his heels.

Beating silent witness to all . . .

 _Hey, baby, come for the show?_

. . . this.

Ears no doubt ringing with Simon's wails.

Vision assailed with images of some out of control brat that had up until now been frequently been nice and quiet . . .

 _So many parents complain their kids talk too much. Idiots._

. . . and 'good'.

A good little mute autistic.

 _Well, there's this too, buddy. Whaddya got now?_

She couldn't afford him too much attention though . . .

"You might want to go," she had projected over the din. "This isn't usually pretty."

. . . she'd had to concentrate on giving her entire soul to her son whilst somehow managing to not break her heart.

Or her bones.

 _He'll leave eventually. Who wouldn't if they could._

And he did.

She glanced over some immeasurable time later.

As Simon was finally calming, whimpers and grunts punctuating her nonsensical 'shhh' mantra.

Muscles involuntarily twitching here and there against her arms.

And saw the shadow gone.

 _And another one bites the dust. Fan-freaking-tastic. Thanks very much, you dick._

Still, it was for the best, she supposed. If he couldn't handle the bad, he wasn't worth her good.

* * *

In the end, it was the Neosporin that had nearly sent her over the edge.

Bucky and his damn Neosporin (dug from her own first aid box, thank you very much).

And his gentle fingers and compassionate yet not pitying expression

.She had tried.

"Just give me a minute."

To remain a solitary island in the ocean of his eyes.

"Bucky."

And he had studiously ignored her hollow redirection.

"Bucky . . . _Bucky_. I can do it myself."

And she could. No martyrdom or self-pity here, no, not Amelia Watson.

Just . . .

"It's not a big deal. I'm used to it."

And she was, she really was.

But Bucky . . .

"Yeah, but here's the thing. You don't have to."

. . . seemed to be working off of a different thought process.

"I'm here."

He looked so sincere and earnest. So protective and caring.

And she-

She suddenly flared with a heaving, wretching resentment against the impossible situation, Simon's condition, Jack's death, and the unfairness of the entire bloody universe.

She tried not to throw it onto Bucky. She really did try.

And she thought . . .

"But you won't always be, will you?"

. . . that she succeeded mostly.

He had looked sad then and she had felt instant regret that she could not take back the words or the honesty behind them.

But then, damn him, he had rallied.

"No. But I'm here _now_."

And he was right. He was.

And he cared.

And he was, currently and wholeheartedly, present in her life.

And that was all anyone ever had.

The time given to them.

 _Dammit, I gotta stop taking advice from Gandalf the White._

So Amelia Watson . . .

"Okay."

. . . sat and sipped her chamomile tea. Made for her by . . .

 _Oh dear god . . ._

"Bucky . . ."

 _. . . he_ is _perfect._

". . . thank you."

 _Except for the whole scrambled egg brain thing._

. . . the former deadlyWinter Soldier.

 _Scourge of Carpathia._

 _What?_

 _Gosh, I'm tired._

She sat and she mused . . .

 _Ouch, that hurts._

 _What will I do when Simon's older and bigger, oh god . . ._

. . . on Simon and . . .

 _So gentle and soft and strong, oh how relaxing . . ._

. . . Bucky. Who had, less than an hour earlier, set out a cup of hot tea for her.

Calm, soothing aura about him.

Compassionate but not pitying expression . . .

 _How are you validating everything about me without saying a word?_

. . . on his handsome face.

Amelia had felt tears well in her stubborn eyes at the simple sight of him standing in her tiny kitchen.

And it was all she had been able to do not to make a beeline straight for him, bury her head in that cotton covered chest of his and let him wrap his strong arms around her.

Not even romantically. Just . . . someone to support her collapse for once.

And he would have too. If nothing else, just to be kind. Just because. Because he was Bucky.

 _No. No, ma'am. I am not crossing that line. If I cross it, I won't be able to cross back._

 _And he's not good for me. That way._

Even so, her tired thoughts wandered where they didn't need to go.

The fact that Bucky was caring for her like a . . .

 _Don't say it, don't you dare even think it-_

. . . loving husband might his . . .

 _Stop it, stop it, for god's sake, stop-_

. . . wife who'd had a bad day and needed to talk.

 _Just couldn't stop, could you?_

And now, after all that, the only thing Amelia Watson could do was sit there.

And let him.

"Thank you, Bucky."

"You're welcome, Amelia."

* * *

 **And there go Amelia and Bucky stomping all over the feels again.**

 **And then an obscure Ghostbusters 2 quote for some levity.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red for reviewing yet again.**

 **Thanks also LKZiggy for** **adding your support to this story. :)**

 **Next up, some more levity please. Yeah, that'd be great.**


	32. Amelia Watson Falls in Love

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Amelia Watson Falls in Love . . . With Hot Chocolate

* * *

 _This hot chocolate cannot be anywhere near as sweet as those two Picassos over there._

Simon maybe.

She was accustomed to his quiet vulnerability, his inherent charm.

The cute little boy being adorable.

He was her son, after all.

He was doing what he did best.

Be lovely and special to her.

But Bucky Barnes?

That was, and continued to be, a mystery Amelia Watson delighted in watching unravel.

Most of the time quite by accident.

Easily six one. Probably around two hundreds pounds of pure, lean, fighting muscle.

 _Not that I'm looking. Uh-uh._

 _Friends._

Dour face, everything about him hiding from the masses of prying eyes his paranoid mind felt scrutinizing his familiar features.

Mind of ruthless strategy and whispering hope and broken puzzle pieces.

Metal arm that could probably smash through walls and doors and wreck havoc like nobody's business.

 _And let's not forget, wanted and shadowed._

And not by screaming fangirls either, some darkly brooding rock crooner.

But a man hunted by power hungry secret agencies and scheming underground government factions.

A man that should hate the world, resent people with hope and possibility to their lives.

And yet here he was.

Sitting peacefully at her kitchen table. Across from a mute autisic seven year old.

Making friends by drawing stick figures on the condensation-fogged window pane.

And it wasn't the first time either.

No, much like the penny, this new venture with Simon took a level of patience and commitment that few . . .

 _Certainly not good old Mom . . ._

"Amy, have you considered it might be best to find a good home for him somewhere?"

"He's not a puppy, Mom."

"No dear, I meant a place for his kind."

"His kind? Like . . . the X-Men?"

Her cool sarcasm had been lost on the older woman.

"What? No dear, I mean a place where he can be properly cared for."

"He _is_ properly cared for, Mom. He's with me. I'm his mother. _I_ properly care for him."

"Amy-"

"Please don't 'Amy' me, Mom. Simon is my son. I'm his _mother_. I can figure it out."

. . . managed to muster.

Bucky had independently devised the penny game, a simple, non-threatening mode of interaction that Simon could manage.

Patiently introduced it, allowing the boy to interact at his own pace, his own comfort level.

And even managed a first-hand freak-out with equinimity and more sincere support than she'd ever experienced in her life as Simon's mother.

 _Oh Bucky, baby, that_ _metal arm is just about the least of your special traits._

And it really was.

The more she learned about him, the more insignificant to his character that arm was.

It was a weird, jacked thing. A constant, knife-in-the-gut reminder of what he had been twisted into.

 _I wonder how long he kept it hidden even when he was alone?_

She suddenly had a vision of Bucky Barnes slowly uncovering the mechanical arm.

Something he had done over and over again.

In the dead of night perhaps when he felt no one else in the world was alive but him.

Inspecting it closely.

Much as she had done. Except without the wonder and horror.

Just the horror.

Touching it. Feeling the receptors report back the sensation.

Wondering how he had become this . . . thing.

Did he ever try to dismantle it? Grope along the shoulder seam, desperate to find a break, a place he could dig into with his strong fingers, tear the offensive machinery away from his human body?

Thinking a life of disfigurement and pain preferable in lieu of life as a monster?

Failing over and over again to find any weak points at all, the execution of the design flawless and without fail?

The crushing realisation of the fact shredding his sanity bit by bit to the breaking point?

Or did he only dream it, never daring to finagle with the smoothly constructed metal for fear of damaging the wires buried deep within his too responsive human flesh, knowing there was no possible escape ever for him?

And then awaken to his seemingly bleak reality, resigned to the permanency of life as a presumed abomination?

Against his will. Like Frankenstein's creation.

And he _was_ bizarre, an anomaly unlike any she had ever witnessed.

His story, tragic and bitter and relentlessly terrifying.

But that wasn't _all_ he was.

Though sometimes it seemed he felt like that was all he deserved.

Even when he heart fought against it.

Never quite accepting the fact that it (and his super soldier serumed self) made him feel like a freak, made him feel less than human, less than a normal person . . .

 _Well, maybe_ normal _people should aspire to be more like_ you _, honey . . ._

And he was, he was so much more.

He was a good man, compassionate and caring and kind.

He glanced up at her then, Bucky did, a small smile coming into his blue eyes and tickling the corners of his mouth.

She smiled back reflexively, thinking he wished he could see himself as she saw him.

 _Well, ahem, maybe not exactly like I see him. Cough, cough. He'd blush himself to death. The big, tough Winter Soldier._

But really, he was, in so many ways, just right.

 _Except for the scrambled egg brain. Jeez, there has to be_ some _way to_ un _brainwash somebody. Somebody with special powers or_ some _thing . . ._

And Amelia, with all these thoughts and a myriad of others hidden behind a slightly doting expression . . .

 _Boy, this g-, chocolate is so s-, sweet._

. . . continued to quietly stir the hot chocolate.

While Bucky and Simon, clustered together only a few feet away, resumed their artifying of the rain streaked window.

And Amelia . . .

 _There's no getting around it. I think I'm definitely starting to fall in love . . ._

 _Freaking deaky trainwreck . . ._

 _. . . with this hot chocolate._

. . . continued to observe and stir.

* * *

It hadn't been _the_ longest ten minutes of her life.

Not by a long shot.

"So, Amy, have you met a man yet?"

But certainly longer than she preferred.

"No, Mom."

 _But I did meet a Bucky._

"When are you going to meet a man, Amy?"

"I don't _want_ to meet a man, Mom."

 _Men are boring. And stupid._

"Well, you don't want to grow old and die alone, do you?"

"I'm thirty-three, Mom."

 _Elizabeth Taylor had barely gotten through half of her marriages by this point. I'm pacing myself._

"You could even have more children if you wanted. I'm sure not all of them would be like Simon."

"I love Simon, Mom. I don't need any more children."

 _And you're starting to piss me off._

"Of course you do, dear. We all do. Anyway, Amy, tell me about your life."

 _Um, no._

* * *

She handled her life quite well, most of the time.

Enjoy the little things, attempted to take the frustrations in stride.

And did her best by Simon.

And herself.

And sometimes when she couldn't take it anymore, when all of the stress and anxiety and resentment and frustration and anger could no longer be contained peacefully in her soul.

When her shoulders were wired into wretched bundles and her neck felt ready to snap with the tension.

Amelia Watson moved her body, exercised her muscles.

Not with some light walking or even strenuous running or laborious weightlifting.

Nothing so silly and fun and lively as Zumba.

Nothing quite so peaceful and zen as yoga.

Just her. Her well-wrapped knuckles.

Burning arms and pouring sweat.

A crooked snarl disfiguring her lovely face.

Or just laser-focused, blank-faced, deadly determination.

Amelia Watson. And a punching bag.

Big, buff men usually rolled her eyes behind their backs at her presence.

Felt exasperation or mild amusement at such a dainty little girl attempting to dominate such a solid, thick piece of equipment.

And it was true. The first time she has been dismal, absolutely dreadful.

But she was quick learner, a diligent student.

And used her discontent and animosity to fuel her brutal assaults.

With upper cuts and jab and left hooks and right hooks.

And pure unadulterated rage.

And then the men stopped laughing, stopped ridiculing her behind her back.

And instead began to began to watch her out of the corners of their eyes, impressed..

Wondering what her name was. Where she was from.

How she liked her coffee.

But upon closer inspection, saw the black hate welling up out of her every pore.

And thought better of approaching her.

Most of them.

The smart ones anyway.

 _Not now, man. Probably not ever. Ugh._

* * *

 **The sad thing is, in her mind, the mother is only looking after her daughter's best interests and has no idea how overbearing and unsupportive she's actually being. Some people have very little self-realization.**

 **Anyway, thanks to brigid1318, Ruby Rosetta Red, cairistiona7, tamarbvillar, and OnYourLeft107 (wow, sweetie, just wow!) for reviewing!**

 **Up next, well, you'll see.**


	33. Rooftop Rendezvous

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Rooftop Rendezvous

* * *

"You look beautiful, Amelia."

Her cheeks reddened as he admired her appreciatively then blushed further as he amended his initial compliment.

"Of course, you always look beautiful."

It was a clichéd line but he spoke it so sincerely she knew it wasn't just some careless flirtation some guy said to some gal.

He really meant it.

 _And he is right,_ she had to admit to herself. _I do look very attractive even if I do say so myself._

Amelia had taken special care with her appearance for this occasion. Something she hardly ever did.

One, because she was the well engaged mother of an autistic child.

And two, because she believed that true beauty shined out of the plainest people through their good souls.

And she had decided long ago it was more important to be one of those 'pretty on the inside' people rather than waste her time caring what other people thought.

 _Still, nothing wrong with having a little fun now and then._

Which was exactly what she intended to do tonight.

She proudly smoothed down the front of her dress, a navy blue swing skirted 1940s Grable tea dress. Light blue bodice adorned with tiny soft yellow and pink flowers. Tied cap sleeves.

Her dark hair was gently curled and styled in side parted victory rolls.

Lips bright red and modernly smudge proof. Curled lashes mascaraed and slightly winged and accompanied by just the right amount of cat-eye liner.

Bright red nails, freshly painted and lacquered. Even had painted her toes, now currently hidden away in their navy suede dancing pumps.

It would have seemed just a touch over the top, almost costume-y. If not for the theme of the evening.

Forties' dinner and dancing.

Amelia beamed at the only slightly self-conscious man standing on her threshold.

"Thank you! You look quite handsome yourself!"

And he did. Always.

Just differently now.

Bucky Barnes was garbed in a simple, well-cut dark suit. Shined shoes.

And even though his hair was still scandalously long, by forties standards anyway, it was brushed and smoothly tucked behind his ears.

He had even shaved his face.

Previously scruffy, his jawline, cheekbones, and even his tantalizing lips now all stood out in more obvious relief than before.

 _Hellllo, Nurse! I mean, Bucky._

He looked very dapper indeed.

She invited him in.

* * *

It wasn't exactly a _traditional_ 1940s date.

'Good' women of the era wouldn't have dared invite a man in 'to sit' alone.

But she wasn't going for straight authenticity . . .

 _Forgot my lined pantyhose and my girdle, darn._

. . . or anything.

She had, however, made a top of the line classic dish nearly any man would heartily enjoy.

Steak and potatoes. Small glasses of wine.

Selected simply because it was something familiar to Bucky.

Familiar and, according to her guest . . .

Scraping silverware.

Appreciative sounds.

Scattered small talk.

Mouth wiped firmly with cloth napkin.

"That was delicious, Amelia. Thank you."

. . . perfectly prepared.

Even a minature flourless chocolate cake.

 _Flourless even. And still pretty good at that._

She laid the dishes in to soak and her guest, metal hand plainly in view for once . . .

 _Significant? Probably. We'll see if it comes up over coffee._

. . . brewed a cup of coffee for each of them.

It didn't.

* * *

"Do you trust me?"

It wasn't even a consideration for her.

"Yes."

He smiled.

"Okay."

And to the sounds of big band swing music straight out of the forties, they started dancing.

Not exactly the flinging up over the head, flipping in the air, death defying plunges nearly to the ground that some could pull off.

But a little Fred. A dash of Rita.

It certainly got her heart pounding, her pulse racing . . .

 _Well, at least I know that arm is strong enough to catch me if I go flying off the roof._

It was almost like one of those old movies she'd never had the patience to watch . . .

 _Boring. Where's the explosions? Or at least the funny jokes?_

 _Weird alien friend?_

. . . as a child.

Swing dancing on the roof. High above the city lights.

Stars twinkling bright overhead.

Smiling at each other, laughing.

The night lights illuminating their jitterbugging forms, their shadows jiving at their feet.

Trumpets and drums and trombones and saxophones permeating the surrounding darkness with their upbeat, jazzy tempos.

And a handsome man guiding their rythymic movements.

It was just as fun . . .

 _Oooh, Bucky! Too fast! Ahhh!_

. . . as it sounded.

* * *

"This was a good idea. I'm really enjoying myself."

Bucky grinned.

"Me too."

Amelia reflexively glanced over the battery-powered baby monitor she had placed on the ledge.

"Do you want go in and check on him?"

Bucky didn't seem to be annoyed. He seemed to truly care, truly want her as comfortable with the situation as possible.

No tension between them, no resentment. No pressure.

And she adored him for it.

She considered it, glanced at the monitor again.

The light was green and still. No fluctuations, no red flashing.

"Later. He seems to be resting okay right now."

Bucky tilted his head, ears sharply attuned.

Then he smiled

"Yeah, he's snoring."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"I can't hear that. Can you _hear_ that?"

He nodded, shrugging a little.

And she smiled waspishly.

"Neato."

 _There. I've even got the vernacular down._

Bucky held out his hand, a slightly mischievous expression brightening his face.

"Ready for another spin, doll?"

She beamed.

"Yes!"

* * *

Her feet, unaccustomed to dancing and 'ladylike' footwear, wore out before her enthusiasm and enjoyment did.

The pumps were stylish. And lovely.

And hurting her feet.

So it was she found herself perched on the wall, back warm against the brick chimney.

The former Winter Soldier supporting her outstretched foot with a careful metal hand.

Gently massaging her cramping toes, aching arch with the flesh one.

First one foot, then the other.

Quiet, soothing minutes spent in solemn ministering care of her barking dogs.

Then he lowered the second foot down gently, searching her face with light attention.

"Better?"

She nodded, transfixed by the man before her, his face open, eyes inviting.

And felt more than her back growing warm.

"Yes."

The wild, trumpeting tune ended, only scant beats passing before something softer and slower began crooning its way through the night air.

She could almost see the waves of meandering melody drifting its way over the rooftops of sleeping Bucharest.

And then there was Bucky.

Still smiling easily, reaching for her.

Polite, mannerly hands grasping her waist as she placed her own hands on his broad shoulders.

And he lifted her back down to the cool apartment rooftop.

Releasing her the second her toes touched.

Only to smoothly glide his right hand down her arm, bringing it up next to them. Enfolding her soft hand in his own rougher one.

As his other metal appendage encircled her waist in a gentle but firm embrace.

That same metal pressing lightly to her back, holding her, pulling her close against him.

Too close to dance, only close enough to feel their individual warmth intermingling. Faces, lips inches apart.

His eyes so clear and blue, she could gladly float in their ocean depths an ageless time.

He smiled affectionately at her, not the seductive, come-hither look frequented in situations such as this.

But a smile of contentment, happiness.

And love.

"You're wonderful, Amelia. More than you could ever imagine."

Caught up in him, she could barely draw breath to respond.

"I'm no perfect angel, Bucky. I'm just me."

His grin broadened and he stepped back, raising the hand that held hers.

Guiding her into a gentle spin. Before bringing their bodies back together again, and beginning a swaying slow dance.

Eyes still locked on hers. As if she were the only thing that mattered to him.

"You are to me."

His lips were closer than ever before.

She could feel his body, taste his breathe.

He was going to kiss her.

And she was going to let him.

. . .

And then the alarm bleeped its way into her dream and fragmented it apart.

 _Wtf?_

And as she recovered, she said a few bleeping things of her own.

As well as . . .

 _I hate five a.m._

* * *

 **This one is for DinahRay, who requested a forties style date. So there you go, sweetie. Kinda. Enjoy!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, Ruby Rosetta Red, cairistona7, OnYourLeft107, tamarabvillar, and my Enthusiastic Guest for your gracious reviews.**

 **Next up, life goes askew. You know.**


	34. Making It Okay

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Making It Okay

* * *

As soon as he missed their Thursday at the Cismigiu, Amelia knew.

Bucky never missed the Cismigiu. He was never even late for it.

On the contrary, he seemed to actively anticipate it, his usually grim face brightening everytime he caught sight of them lounging on the sunny green.

 _I remember when I first saw you. You were hiding in plain sight. And I wondered what from._

 _I didn't think much of you at the time._

 _Just another stroller. Here and gone._

Now, not here. Gone.

And Amelia Watson's heart became a block of heavy lead in her throat and stomach.

Simon didn't notice, not at first.

Until she beckoned him to come, with forewarning of course.

And he paused. Little Simon with his tousled hair and his seeking eyes.

And his little hand gripped around the penny.

His afternoon unfinished at the Cismigiu, still awaiting his penny friend.

Amelia, choking down her feelings, of course did her best to make sure everything was okay.

Even though right then, it really wasn't.

 _Run, Bucky, run. Don't let them catch you._

Walking home, holding Simon's non-pennied hand.

Overhearing radio stations from the vendors along the walk.

Mind shakily translating the Romanian into English.

"High-speed chase . . . structural damage . . . traffic brought to a halt . . ."

And she knew it was him.

". . . suspect . . . bombing . . . Sokovia Accords Conference . . ."

 _It wasn't him in Vienna. He doesn't do that anymore._

And she kept walking.

" . . . James Buchanan Barnes . . ."

And struggling not to cry.

" . . . Winter Soldier . . ."

Struggling to remain impassive on the outside.

 _No you don't. Don't you say it. Don't you say his name like that. You don't know him. You don't_ get _to say his name like that. And if you knew him, you wouldn't._

Reaching their apartment building, struggling not to squeeze Simon's hand too hard.

 _Run, Bucky._

For fear of inciting an outburst.

It was one of the longest walks of her life.

Finally arriving in the apartment, throwing down her purse, Simon of course heading straight to his closet nook.

And Amelia heading straight to the bathroom.

Shutting the door, collapsing down in front of the toliet.

Gasping for breath, waiting for the heaving and shuddering to pass.

And being so, so sick at heart.

She could barely . . .

 _Bucky-_

. . . think.

* * *

She came out of the bathroom some time later.

Made herself a cup of chamomile tea at four in the afternoon.

And couldn't touch it.

Little bare feet made almost no sound as they approached.

But suddenly Simon was there. Standing beside her. Eyes downcast to the floor.

Hand on her arm.

And Amelia Watson scooped him up, bursting into tears all over again.

Held him and cried and rocked him.

To rock herself.

Until he squirmed to be let go.

She did.

"Thank you, Simon," she whispered.

He did not respond.

She had not expected him to.

* * *

"Bucky!"

She slammed into him so hard she lost her breath.

Or maybe her breath was just lost because she was in shock.

Bucky. Here.

 _The hell?!_

He'd said if he had to run, he wouldn't be able to come back.

So she hadn't expected him, hadn't looked for him.

Because he had said he would have to be gone.

To protect them, keep them s-

"Oh my god, what-"

* * *

His tale was crazy, insane.

Full of superhero antics . . .

 _A tiny guy who turns big? I heard about that, right? And a toy train or something? But giant too? Even his d-_

. . . and extreme measures . . .

 _Seriously? He clamped your arm in a vice?! That's hardcore!_

. . . and a hot super soldier chick to boot.

 _Black leather, huh? Well, I can't compete with that._

And sadness and sorrow and regret and guilt and all the other things she had come to expect from her Bucky.

 _Ahem, Bucky._

As well as the blackly bleak knowledge . . .

"Everything HYDRA put inside me is still there, Amelia."

. . . that he was still trapped, a prisoner, a hostage . . .

"I can't trust my own mind."

. . . of that bastard organization that brutalized his existence in the first place.

"I'm not safe."

And, if his story were to be believed, it was true.

Eleven little Russian words.

Read out of some damn book.

And Bucky Barnes was no more.

Stamped down by the merciless killing machine slammed forth from the recesses of his mind.

 _Can't somebody fix this? Anybody?_

And she knew the words he would say before he spoke them.

"Until they figure out a way to get it out of me, going back under is the safest thing for everybody."

And he was absolutely right.

It was.

Amelia sat there across from him. Wanting to scream. Wanting to throw her cup, liquid and ceramic and all, against the wall.

Wanting to rage against the machine that had been, was, whatever, HYDRA.

And all she could do was sit.

Sit and think.

And try to not cry as she pled . . .

" . . . destroy the book . . ."

. . . and rationalized . . .

" . . . compound and everything in it . . ."

. . . and begged.

" . . . move on with your life . . ."

All the while knowing it was for nothing.

And she just couldn't look at him anymore.

Those ocean blue eyes, so full of sincerity and pain.

And determination.

She stood up then, escaping the sight of Bucky Barnes as she fled to the sink.

The stupid sink where she abdicated her cup before she flung it against the wall in a fit of despair.

 _Bucky, Bucky, why did I invite you into my life?_

 _Because he needed it._

 _So did I._

 _And Simon._

And now he was leaving.

 _It is for the best. He's right._

Forever, according to him.

 _I hate him._

 _No. I don't._

* * *

She forced herself to turn around and face him.

Him.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

The man with the metal arm.

The man she loved.

He was looking at her, so sad.

So regretful.

"I'm sorry, Amelia."

And he was, he really was.

They were both trapped in an impossible situation.

Her wanting him to stay.

Him, unable to.

And nothing could change for either one of them.

She closed her eyes and shook her head.

Knowing these were the last words she would ever have the chance to say to him.

And she had to make them _count_.

Make him understand . . .

Understand what? How much he meant? How much she needed him?

No. Something more. Something bigger than her stupid heart.

She needed him to understand what he really was.

Not a monster.

Not a machine.

 _Then what?_

Still human.

Then she made her little speech, her heart-felt reply.

". . . hurts . . . normal . . . natural . . . human response."

And then on impulse, she kissed him.

Moved forward without permission.

Pressed her body lightly to his.

Finally took that handsome, bruised, beaten face in her hands.

Gazed deep into those blue, blue eyes.

And kissed him.

Light and soft and sweet and gentle.

Feeling his hesitancy, understanding it, knowing its origin . . .

 _No, you're not going to Winter Soldier my vagina, Bucky. That's not you unless I offer it._

And she wasn't going to either.

The romantic-passionate-sex-just-once-before-he-leaves-forever senario was stupid.

Cliche.

And would only cause them both even more emotional pain and regret.

And way too much damn loss.

As if there weren't enough already.

So she only kissed him.

Kind and friendly.

Not to tease.

But so he would know . . .

"See? Human."

. . . what he truly was.

* * *

"I have to go, Amelia."

The words were like a knife slicing her to her very core.

But even more so when she caught sight of Simon.

Having mysteriously appeared as only he could.

Now staring at the man he had not invited into his life, the one who had already disappeared.

Now suddenly returned.

And leaving.

Amelia sucked in her breath . . .

 _Oh man, there's gonna be hell to pay._

. . . and waited.

But there wasn't. At least not yet.

Bucky knelt down, treating Simon like a living, breathing, thinking, feeling human being.

"Hey, pal . . ."

Which always destroyed and simultaneously healed her heart.

". . . care of her, okay? She's a special lady."

And Simon responded.

Not verbally.

But clearly all the same.

With the penny. Held out in his upstretched palm.

A silent communication. With his only friend.

And Bucky, kneeling before him.

Diminished yet stronger than Amelia had ever seen him.

And smiling anyway.

"You too, Simon."

And she could stand still no longer.

Moving forward, scooping Simon up in her arms.

Holding him as tight as he would let her.

And turning to Bucky Barnes.

Drinking him in for the last moment she would ever have in this world.

And finally speaking.

"You're a good man, Bucky. Because you choose to be. Remember that."

He thanked her of course.

For all she had done.

Which they both knew was a lot.

 _I know, baby. I'm the freaking Madonna of the Rocks._

But it really did mean so much.

How could they take this man and turn him into a killer?

And then she said the only thing there was left to say.

"Go."

 _I love you._

* * *

In the days and weeks and months that followed, Amelia Watson would keep an eye and ear a bit more out for world news.

Not obsessively, that was unhealthy.

But she would pay attention to certain key words.

HYDRA. Steve Rogers. Avengers. Wakanda.

She wouldn't obsess because she wouldn't be able to trust the information not to be skewed, important bits taken out by the government, messed up by the media.

But she would pay attention nevertheless.

And she would not look for him.

Bucky.

He had admitted long ago he would most likely have to leave again one day.

And she had believed him.

So to search for him, to wait for him would be the acme of foolishness.

It would break her heart, stop her life.

And be stupid as crap.

So she would think of him, she would miss him, sometimes greatly, sometimes in passing.

But she would not allow herself to pine.

After a man who would never come back.

So Amelia Watson would focus on her son, her job, her hobbies, and remaining friends.

She would, on occasion, force herself to go out for coffee with a man here or there.

Force herself to see his good qualities.

Give herself a chance to develop some sort of relationship.

And breathe only the slightest sighs of regret when ultimately, the situation resolved itself and she was alone again.

Because this new guy just hadn't been The One worth readjusting her her life for.

She wouldn't be saving herself for Bucky.

He wouldn't be coming back. He had told her.

She just would be living as she had always lived.

The best she could for Simon. And herself.

At times it would be lonely, like always.

Filled with frustration, like always.

But Amelia Watson would be as tough as she could, like always .

As alive as she could. Happy as she could. Well as she could.

Using her life. All of it, good and bad, Jack and Bucky and Simon and everything, to be grateful for the good parts.

And learn from the bad parts.

But for now, as James Buchanan Barnes quietly exited their lives forever, she simply concentrated on putting Simon peacefully back to sleep.

"I love you, my sweet son. I love you so much."

* * *

 **Amelia's direct POV is now completed. I did my best to make it good. I love her so (yes, I know she's fictional, hush) and I've really enjoyed writing for her.**

 **If you are satisfied to stop here, as it is a good, decent ending, please feel free to do so. Leave a review you like, a smile for Simon, and have a cuppa for our heroine.**

 **If you're into reunions, well, then watch out for another four or five chapters coming your way! All new content!**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Sassiebone, Ruby Rosetta Red, OnYourLeft107, Artemis7448, and a Very Sweet Guest for reviewing!**


	35. Wake Up, Buck

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Wake Up, Buck (Or in Sam's Words, That's Means You, Sleeping Beauty)

* * *

"Wanda, I wanted to talk to you about something."

Wanda Maximoff was a bit quieter these days, a bit more withdrawn.

More so than before.

 _Not on my ass,_ she would say, thinking of Clint. _Just thinking_.

But nevertheless, she turned to him.

Captain America.

No. Captain America was dead. He had sacrificed himself, the symbol, his shield, because he had chosen Bucky instead.

This was Steve.

Serious-faced Steve Rogers.

"I understand if you say no but . . ."

And he had been thinking too.

"If you can put things into people's minds, can you take them out?"

* * *

James Buchanan Barnes stirred slowly.

Opening his eyes.

Not to the freezing, painful hell of the HYDRA compound. But to a warm, safe, relatively comfortable hospital bed.

Surrounded by sterile, white walls. Beeping machines.

And what felt like a room of full of faces.

Fortunately . . .

"Steve."

. . . they were friendly, familiar faces.

"Hey, Buck."

It was the first in a time out of memory that he had woken up unafraid.

Though he was still somewhat lost.

"When is it?"

Bucky glanced nervously at the rest of them, feeling uncomfortably exposed and vulnerable and on display.

But he trusted Steve Rogers.

His friend who now spoke again.

"Well, it's been almost a year since you went under. But we think we've finally got a solution for you."

And then they showed him what they had brought.

He stared at it, transfixed.

"Really?"

Natasha Romanoff's smirk was lovely and gently amused.

"Yeah, it's, uh, Christmas for all of Steve's nongenarian super soldier friends."

Sam Wilson shot her a dry look.

"Boy, that was a mouthful. You practice that in the elevator?"

The self-assured redhead tossed it right back to him.

"Well, I wanted to get it just right. Seemed like an important moment."

Steve grinned as Bucky bemusedly took them all in.

And the gift.

Not only was it disturbing and strange to see one unattached to an actual person . . .

"We hear Coulson loves his."

. . . in its own way because of what it meant to him, it was intoxicatingly beautiful.

"Yeah, he can Facetime with it and everything."

Bucky interrupted the verbal table tennis match, face refusing hopefulness.

"But what about-"

And another person stepped forward.

Slender, petite.

With straight, long, dark hair.

"I think I can help with that."

* * *

Wanda Maximoff wanted to be careful, tread lightly in the lost, dark forest of Bucky Barnes' mind.

She worked slowly and carefully.

With great care and consideration.

It took a while.

But, finally . . .

"Okay. Clear."

Bucky Barnes opened his eyes.

Steve Rogers set his jaw.

Not quite daring to hope, even with all of Wanda's powers.

But still determined . . .

"Okay. Only one way to test it out. You ready, Buck?"

"Not really. But yeah."

. . . to try.

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

Bucky Barnes took a deep breath.

Released it.

And smiled. A real smile.

A lopsided Bucky smile.

"Better."

Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

It had worked.

They all felt the relief, including Sam Wilson.

Who nevertheless folded his arms, dry witted and determined as always to never give an inch.

"So, uh, now that you're done with your spa treatment, think you'd like to help us fight some bad guys?"

* * *

As soon as the man with the book started saying the words. . .

"Longing . . ."

. . . Bucky's panicked heart tried to explode as he fought to break free of his bonds.

 _"No-"_

He knew Wanda's powers had relieved him of the hold . . .

"Leave the memories."

"Why?"

"Because whoever they were, those people deserve to be remembered."

. . . of the Winter Soldier.

But decades of ingrained fear . . .

". . . daybreak . . ."

. . . had dug it deep into his marrow.

His captor glowered, ignorantly confident of his hold over the newly reacquired Asset.

Bucky broke the restraints just as the final word . . .

"Freight car."

. . . was spoken.

Now now the Machine was silent and still.

Awaiting, no doubt, further instruction.

"Soldier?"

Beat of silence.

Absolute stillness.

Then.

"No."

Absolute calm.

"Soldier?"

And absolute Bucky Barnes.

 _"No."_

Confusion emanating from his would-be controller saturated the air for a brief span of seconds.

And then The Not Winter Soldier roundhoused the him in the face with his new left arm, dropping his unconscious bulk to the ground.

"Asshole."

And stepped away from the downed body dismissively.

Then through the com in his ear, he heard something he had not heard in many years.

"Hey, language!"

Bucky Barnes, surging to his very core with the exhilaration of mental freedom, nevertheless paused to roll his eyes at the disembodied voice.

"Still with that, Steve?"

The voice came back mixed with slight embarrassment and determined stern-ness.

"There're ladies present, Buck."

Before Bucky could snark a reply, Natasha Romanoff did it for him.

"Yeah, and I don't appreciate hearing shit like that, Barnes."

Bucky shook his head and grinned.

"Well, my damn apologies then, Ms. Romanoff."

"If you're nasty."

"Huh?"

Then his grin broadened as he heard the barely audible sigh of exasperation.

From the first super soldier, choosing not to respond.

To any of them. At all.

 _I like this. This could work_.

* * *

"Well, we won."

Clint Barton could always be counted to be direct.

"And we all survived too, so that's a plus."

Steve visibly tightened as he glanced at Wanda. Wanda whose brother was still dead these several years.

His anxiety was unfounded.

Wanda laid a gentle hand on his arm, not needing her powers to sense his tension at Sam's careless remark.

"It's okay. I am glad we're all alive too."

Bucky looked around at the group that had accepted him. Fought with him. With him and for him.

 _I like this. I can do this._

Then his face turned southeast.

 _You know what else I'd like . . ._

* * *

"Good team, huh?"

Bucky nodded, back at the safehouse, feeling glad to be standing next to his friend.

"Yeah, they are."

Still . . .

"Hey, uh, I need to talk to you."

Steve Rogers folded his arms across his broad chest, setting his feet a little.

"What's up, Buck?"

The man who was no longer a slave to the whims of HYDRA mind manipulation shuffled a little self consciously. Then decided he didn't care and that he wasn't embarrassed.

"Well . . ."

* * *

 **I hope this isn't too simplified and ex-machina for you guys. But I like it and I can manage it. So it's what I'm doing.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, cairistona7, tamarabvillar, Ruby Rosetta Red, vajbff, eileanskye, OnYourLeft107, Artemis7448, brynerose, and Sassiebone for reviewing, wow!**

 **Thanks also to CollegeGirl2018 for adding your support to this tale.**

 **Up next, well, you probably guessed. ;)**


	36. Reunion Tour

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Reunion Tour

* * *

"Bucky!"

It was the second time since they had known each other that she had thrown herself into his arms.

 _Hey, doll!_

For him, passing the time in cryofreeze, it had only been a few weeks.

For Amelia, it had been more than a year.

He was somewhat surprised that she responded so freely, considering the more extended passage of time for her.

Though he also thought he shouldn't.

She was Amelia after all.

And her own person entirely.

And she held on too, clung with all her might.

Arms tight around his neck, cheek pressed to his. Full, warm body contact.

He gladly returned the embrace.

With a smile.

Two arms.

A now free mind. And lightening heart.

When she finally let him go and stepped back, her entire face was glowing.

"Get _in_ here!" she gushed, immediately tugging the former Winter Soldier eagerly inside her little Bucharest sanctuary.

It looked the same, it smelled the same.

And Bucky instantly felt the sense of home that had always enveloped him whenever he was in the cozy abode.

Strengthened by Amelia's exuberant presence.

"Your arm!"

She was grabbing it, running her hands up and down the cloth-covered appendage in astonishment.

"Is it really real?!"

He nodded, not speaking. Just looking at her, reveling in her, letting her effervescence wash over him.

Then she stepped back, crossing her arms across her heaving chest.

He was tossed back to the night he had burst into her apartment, half crazed with panic and fear.

Only now she was smiling, big and excited. Gleeful.

"Alright then, Bionic Man, let's have it!"

He raised his eyebrows at her, amused.

"Really?"

She tossed out an enthusiastic and very self-assured look.

"Oh yeah!"

He shook his head good-naturedly, shrugging out of his hooded jacket as he did so.

Then without further arguement, his red long sleeved shirt.

And the gray short sleeve shirt underneath that.

Which left only a white tank covering his smooth, well-muscled chest and stomach.

And exposing two seemingly flesh arms.

Shoulders, elbows, wrists. Fingers, bones, joints. Knuckles, pores, hair.

Both limbs fully functional.

And all completely normal looking.

Amelia gasped, her hands coming up to cover her agape mouth.

"Oh Bucky! It's _incredible_!"

Her face was a picture of awe and wonder.

And he understood, he really did.

It was the same feeling he had experienced the first time and did experience every time he looked at it.

Touched it. Thought of it.

In the broad light of day this time, she moved forward.

And reached out a welcomed hand.

Without permission, because she needed none.

She never needed permission from him. She was Amelia.

Amelia, reaching out now.

Reaching out to eagerly inspect the Wakandan engineers' and scientists' impressive handiwork.

Her voice was barely a whisper, as if he had stolen her breath all over again.

And he had.

"No scar tissue . . . not even a seam or break at all . . ."

He smiled down at her, the mirror parallels of the two events painfully, wonderfully clear.

"Does it feel human?" she asked, unable to tear herself away from the technological marvel . . .

 _I remember being impressed by Howard Stark's hovercar. Now I've got this thing._

. . . that was his new left arm.

Turning it this way and that.

And once more, just as before, lacing their fingers together, just for a moment.

Fitting together perfectly.

Bucky shrugged a little, synthetic nerves tingling at her soft touch.

"Not exactly. But pretty close. It feels more natural than the metal one."

She nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

"Does it bleed?"

Amelia would ask _that_ question.

"No. The chemical compound inside is clear. It just . . . oozes."

She grinned cheekily upon at him, the sun highlighting the auburn in her hair.

"Well, I'll take your word for it. I'm not going to check!"

She let go of his arm then and tilted her lovely face up to his, blue eyes alight. Cheeks flushed.

Looking so very happy. Elated.

And he felt his own restrained emotions welling up inside him.

They gazed at each other and the moment seemed to stretch out between them, everything waiting.

His first impulse was to wrap her up in his arms and kiss her.

She had kissed him the night he had come to say goodbye before going back to Wakanda and into cryofreeze.

And though he couldn't let her continue, he hadn't wanted her stop.

Nothing in that regard had changed for him.

But it had been a year and she was a wonderful woman any man would be lucky to spend time with.

And he _had_ left, supposedly never to return.

So kissing her might be assumptive.

He was still considering it when she blew out an exhalation of happy breath and stepped away.

"Okay, I want to hear everything you can tell me!"

Feeling free and at home, Bucky decided to enjoy himself a little.

"Well, can I put my clothes back on first?"

Amelia Watson didn't respond, seeming to gaze intently at his thinly garbed chest.

"Amelia?"

Her innocent yet slightly pixieish expression struck Bucky as both adorable and incredibly sexy.

"I'm thinking."

Then winking devilishly, she waved an acquiescing hand.

"Oh, have it your way then. On is fine."

Grinning, he redressed in everything but his hooded olive jacket. Leaving it neatly draped over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

And sat down at the table opposite her.

To share his new tale.

* * *

Her beautiful blue eyes were wide, drinking in every word of this newer, much shorter, much more hopeful experience.

"And the words didn't have any effect _at all_?"

He grinned lopsidedly, shaking his head. Feeling a slight wave of renewed relief all over again at the revelation.

That he was finally free of the mind control of HYDRA.

Amelia seemed to feel the same, countenance relaxing visibly.

And Bucky sensed rather than entirely saw, a whisper of something pass through her eyes.

Something he couldn't quite decipher.

Not yet.

And was gone just as quick as she refocused.

"And the rest?"

He did lower his gaze then, finding himself looking down at his empty, folded, peaceful hands, face momentarily darkening with the heavy sins of the past.

"I'll always have the memories. I chose to keep them. I'm learning to live with them."

She nodded seriously, as if silently agreeing with the wisdom of this decision.

They sat thus for a moment.

Then Bucky Barnes drew himself back up and looked around, clearing.

And refusing to dampen their reunion with _moroseness_.

"So how have you been? How's Simon?"

Amelia beamed at him.

"We're good! Same routine. Simon's at school right now . . . oh, he's started teaching himself to walk the penny across his knuckles . . ."

Then her musical voice faded away and her face grew solemn. Openly studying him.

And spoke quieter.

"I really missed you, Bucky. I mean, I'm fine, you know, in case you have to leave again soon, but . . . it's so nice to have you back here. And know you're finally _really_ okay."

He smiled again.

"I missed you too, Amelia. And I am. I'm getting there."

They sat comfortably for a few minutes, listening to the quiet sounds of the distant world around them.

Then Bucky Barnes . . .

 _I think I used to be much better at this._

. . . drummed up his courage.

"Are you . . ."

 _How do they say it now?_

". . . uh, seeing anyone?"

* * *

 **Good question, sir. I wonder how she will answer.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318,** **OnYourLeft107, tamarabvillar, eileanskye, vajbff, Sassiebone, and So Kind Guest for your reviews.**

 **Thanks also to for adding your support to this story.**

 **I just appreciate you all so much!**

 **Up next, of course, Amelia answers the question.**


	37. Worth the Wait

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

 ***Fair warning: Iced tea chapter ahead. Like you didn't already know. ;) ***

Worth the Wait

* * *

Amelia smiled and stood up.

"Bucky, if you don't kiss me soon, I'm going to scream."

He grinned.

Rose.

Cupped her face gently in his calloused hands.

Gazed into her beautiful, open, upturned face.

And kissed her.

It was a sweet kiss, tender and thankful and loving and very nearly chaste.

Nearly.

He could feel the warmth of her body, the softness of her lips.

Just like before.

But now everything was different. _He_ was different.

He was better. More stable. Safe.

And knew he was exactly where he wanted to be, with whom he wanted to be.

And he let the kiss linger.

And linger.

Amelia opened her mouth to his just a little.

Just enough to invite him in.

And he went.

Fingers moving, grazing past her temples to slip into the soft fall of her hair.

Feeling her hands tighten their grip on his shirt, her body press more fully to his.

A whisper of a sound escaped her then and completely inflamed his senses.

His entire being throbbed, zeroed in on her physical presence.

He wanted her, he wanted _all_ of her.

He wanted all of her _now_.

But he couldn't take advantage.

He wasn't going to do that.

So he forced himself to stop. Regretfully break their intimate contact.

And watched those blue eyes open, refocus once more on his.

He wasn't going to lie to her.

Not even by omission.

Not anymore. Not again.

"I can't stay indefinitely, Amelia. Steve said he wants me to come back and fight with them."

The woman in his arms blinked and looked down, as if trying to process this newest information. Then back up to him.

"When?"

He shook his head.

"I don't know."

She seemed to consider this.

"Can you come back when it's over?"

He nodded his promise even as he spoke it.

"Yes."

Relief touched her eyes.

"So you're not leaving right _now_."

He shook his head again.

"No, I don't think so."

And she smiled.

"Then we've got time."

And reached up for him.

But Bucky leaned back a little, not yet ready to let himself go.

"Are you sure? I don't want to hurt you again. Or Simon."

Amelia's eyes glistened then, her countenance seeming on the edge of breaking apart with emotion at the thought of Bucky's sincere care and concern for her child.

She dipped her head, eyes down. And though present, was removed from him. Rising passion interchanged by sheer force of will for critical thought.

He let her. Because he had asked and he had meant the question.

He was through hurting those he cared for.

Then she raised her face to his again. Looked him straight in the eyes.

"No. It'll be okay. This is my choice. I'll figure it out."

He nodded seriously.

"Okay. If you're sure."

She smiled gently.

"I am."

Then tilted her head, a tiny, playful smirk on her face.

"Unless you don't want me."

And incredulous expression burst onto his face, making her giggle.

"Oh god, Amelia, you have no idea!"

And then he caught her laughing mouth with his own hungry one.

And they stopped talking.

For several long, languid minutes, he was content to simply kiss her.

Taste her. Savor her.

Fingers, hands, human and synthetic, lost in her soft, silky hair.

Before finally beginning to explore her physically, the last and only undiscovered territory remaining in their relationship.

Bucky's hands wandered tentatively, carefully at first, desire tempered by respect of whatever remaining boundaries she might harbor.

Which apparently were now none.

Growing bolder and more sure as she responded with throaty issues of need and pleasure.

As his racing blood, tingling nerves, responded to her caresses as well.

Off going the layers he had recently redonned.

Her hands, smokily light in their touch, traveling up his wrists, the forearms, brushing the sensitive skin of his inner elbows.

Up the muscular biceps to the defined shoulders.

Fingers grazing his collarbones and finally tangling themselves into that dark mane of hair she had adamantly refrained up until now from touching.

Pulling his mouth down into hers, determined for this span of given time to not let him go.

Then she reached down and hooked her hands under his tank shirt, tickling and teasing the taunt skin just above the waistband of his low slung jeans.

Leaving him momentarily breathless as he gasped against her knowing, smiling mouth.

Sliding the garment with her as she ran her palms up the warm sides of his muscled torso.

As she, on her tiptoes, stretched up to pull it over his head.

Catching his arms behind his back now as they kissed more and more urgently, more passionately.

He couldn't get enough of her. Like a man thirsting for water in the desert. The only way to satisfy his desire, his need, was to delve completely into her.

Breath growing heavy, ragged. The heat and ardor rising like pleasant burning fire between them.

Then the discarded cotton fell to the floor and his arms were free again to wrap themselves around her. Hold her tight. Melt her body into his.

Before he, somewhat blind with no longer forbidden desire, reached out to make their state of disrobement equal.

Vaguely aware that he now was the one smiling at her soft sighs and moans. In response to the his hands, his lips, his tongue against her prickling flesh.

* * *

They left a trail of scattered clothes and shared laughter and needful murmurs the short distance from the kitchen to her bedroom.

Where they tangled themselves up in one another's ready and eager bodies.

Everything about her, about her and him together, heightened his ache, his need for her.

The way she arched into his touch.

The heady musk that rose between them.

The sight and sounds and feel of her honest pleasure.

Bucky had been with a girl or two in his carefree youth before the Army drafted his body and HYDRA hijacked his mind.

He had treated them well enough. Enjoyed them.

But none of them ever meant anything close to what Amelia did.

And his life, his freedom.

His mind.

"Amelia . . . I love you . . ."

* * *

They lay, facing each other, he on his back, she on her side.

Basking in the afterglow of very satisfying, well-deserved, long-awaited physical consumation.

Sweat light and fresh on their bodies, now cooling after the heat of their passion.

Bucky, left arm crooked up, cradling his head as he gazed at her. Muscles and energy pleasantly spent in love, not war. Half smiling at her.

Amelia, eyes half lidded, hair fanned out across her pillow, seeming to be in a happy daze.

"Oh . . . I think I . . . blacked out . . . that was . . . you were . . . it's . . . been a long time."

Bucky tilted toward her a little, reached out his right hand.

Stroking a gentle thumb across her forehead, smoothing back a strand of auburn hair.

She was beautiful always, now even more so with the sunlight dampling her bare skin.

"How long?" he asked playfully.

She closed her eyes, unconsciously licking her lips in a way that made him momentarily forget everything but her moist, pink mouth.

"Uh . . . back in the States . . . Simon was three . . . five years ago? It, uh, didn't go well."

She shrugged.

"Changed my entire perspective on men. And just no guy seemed worth it since then. Up 'til now."

In a fraction of a second, Bucky decided to wait until later to ask her what happened. He didn't want to make her sad now and he also suspected the story would make him angry against whatever faceless idiot had made her unhappy.

And right now, none of that mattered. The past didn't matter.

Only the now mattered.

And Amelia, who seemed to cast the unpleasantness away herself. Stretching lazily, voice almost more sultry than he could bear.

"Don't make me do math after sex, Bucky. My toes haven't even uncurled yet."

He grinned at her,

"What about you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Or do I want to know? "

Bucky shrugged a little, almost self-deprecatively.

"Seventy-five years."

His casual tone seemed to floor her and she gaped at him.

"You . . . I . . ." She seemed to search the ceiling for words before finding an entire sentence that might possibly suffice. "I hope it was worth it!"

He laughed, leaning forward even as his hand sought her bare hip, pulling her toward him.

"Yeah, definitely worth it . . ."

She narrowed her eyes at him, faking a stern expression.

"Hang on, you can't just use that 'seventy-five years' excuse every time to get what you want!"

He smiled mischievously, hungry for her all over again.

"Yes, I can."

She laughed then and reached for him.

And he forgot what he was going to say next.

And gladly just devoted all his attention and desire to the woman in the bed with him.

* * *

 **How's that iced tea then? Showing my slightly dated Southern roots here. We drink iced tea to cool off. For whatever reason. ;)**

 **Hopefully it is clear that these two have a deep and meaningful and well developed relationship full of mutual care and respect and trust and loyalty to one another. And not just two pent-up people just jumping each other's bones.**

 **Well, maybe a little bit jumping each other's bones! ;)**

 **Anyhow, thanks to brigid1318, Ruby Rosetta Red, tamarabvillar, Char (Hey, sweetie!), eileanskye, OnYourLeft107, Artemis7448, Sassiebone, God Bless You Guest (thank you, sweetie), and Lowkey Guest (no problem, sweetie, just make yourself happy, okay, just glad you're enjoying) for all your reviews!**

 **Next up, perhaps a little cooling off? Maybe.**


	38. As Long as It Can

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

As Long As It Can

* * *

"I have to go get Simon from school soon."

Amelia was sitting up this time, the bare curve of her back to him.

He liked that she didn't try to cover herself up. That she was just as she was.

And with him.

"Okay."

That she trusted him so completely. And he wasn't going to break that trust again.

"Are you staying somewhere or . . . do you want to stay here or . . ."

Bucky also sat up from his relaxed repose, interested.

"Can I come with you?"

And Amelia shrugged.

"It's across town. About thirty minutes on the Metro. How do you feel about that?"

Bucky didn't even hesitate.

"I don't mind it. What about Simon? Do you think it would upset him?"

Amelia tilted her head, musing it over.

"Um, I'm not sure. He liked you. I don't know how he'll react honestly. If he does freak out, they've got a calming area in the room for him. We can figure it out."

Now she tilted her head to the other side.

"Or he might just be happy to see you and not freak out at all."

She turned her disheveled head back toward him then, chin grazing her shoulder.

And shrugged.

"I really don't know. It's up to you what you want to do. But you're welcome to come with me if you like."

Bucky absentmindedly stroked the length of her spine, raising goosebumps that he smiled at.

"I'd like to go if you don't mind."

Amelia shifted, stroked his scruffy jawline fondly.

"No, of course not. I'd love it."

He kissed her bare shoulderblade.

"Okay then, I'll go."

Amelia beamed.

"Okay, well, let me get a quick shower and then you can jump in!"

Bucky leaned in closer, nuzzling her neck, wanting fingers caressing the curves of her body that were perfect to him.

"Mmm, we could shower at the same time."

Amelia scoffed, a little breathlessly.

"No, we'd never _leave_!"

They laughed together then, shared a few more playful kisses.

And then Amelia pulled herself away from Bucky Barnes' enticing embrace. With some effort, it seemed.

And went to take her shower.

Bucky remained, laying back again, unadorned, half in and half out of the rumpled sheets.

This was exactly where he wanted to be, here with her.

And later, in a different capacity, with her and Simon.

He just wanted to be a part of them.

At least for a while. For the time he had.

Until that cellphone Steve had given him went off.

And he had to go.

It was unorthodox to his previous understanding of coupledom.

But it was the best he could do under the circumstances.

And better than he could ever remember.

Amelia seemed accepting of it.

He figured he could trust her to talk to him if her feelings changed.

And him the same.

So Bucky laid a hand on his chest, the chest Amelia liked so much to stroke and kiss.

Stared at the ceiling.

And smiled.

* * *

It was, of course, out of his comfort zone.

Lots of people. Trapped on the Metro.

No immediate exit points.

He still got ill at ease to a certain extent in such situations.

But the Winter Soldier couldn't overtake him anymore.

And Bucky Barnes was through running.

So he focused in on the good things.

The patient mother cooing and rocking her fussy baby ahead of them.

The withdrawn teenager nodding his head ever so subtly to the music emitting from his earbuds.

And, of course, Amelia Watson.

Sitting next to him.

Alternating between gazing out the window.

And back to the newly returned man by her side.

Resting her head on his shoulder from time to time, cuddling up comfortably into his side.

They didn't talk much. A little.

Here and there, in Romanian of course. Amelia would point out certain things, identifying them, offering up an interesting antedote.

Mostly Bucky just listened.

And enjoyed her presence.

* * *

Amelia didn't know how Simon would react to the reintroduction of Bucky Barnes into their lives again.

She could tell he had missed the man's presence during the year and some months he had been gone.

Not so much at first.

Bucky not been a daily companion.

Amelia, determined to keep the friendship relaxed and unencumbered and casual, had seen to that.

Resolving to retain her independence, his independence.

And for all that, she had still let herself grow emotionally attached.

Apparently, reserved little Simon had as well.

After several weeks, he had taken to carrying the penny with him wherever he went.

Often gripping it in his little clenched fist for hours at a time.

Refusing to let go.

Refusing to put it down.

Using only one hand for tasks, seeming unconcerned, accepting it as the new norm.

Even holding it as he slept, fingers tightening when she gently tried to pry them open.

Her up late at night, Googling 'penny poisoning'.

Relieved to only be faced with pages and pages of what to do if your dog swallows a coin and how to make him poop it out again.

Resigning herself to hoping Simon would eventually put it down. Not holding her breath.

Because Simon was her child after all.

And very stubborn.

And now, just as Simon was learning to walk the penny across his knuckles (he was up to two sometimes) and Amelia had stopped crying in her sleep more often than not, Bucky had returned.

She had tried to tell herself she hadn't _immediately_ jumped his bones.

They had talked. Bucky, mostly.

Caught up on current . . .

 _Remind me to thank Ms. Maximoff for fixing that scrambled egg brain, sweetie._

. . . events.

 _Then_ she had jumped his bones.

Several times.

He hadn't seemed to mind.

She tingled at little at the residual sensations of their bodies moving together, fitting deliciously, perfectly to one another.

Him not jumping up and running immediately . . .

 _Oh no, not . . . not . . . emotional intimacy!_

. . . away afterwards.

Her not suddenly suffocating in guilt and regret and . . .

 _Call me, maybe?_

. . . uncertainty.

And now here they were. Feeling their way along an untraveled path she currently refered to as 'So My SO's a Super Soldier, Now What Do I Do?'

And all the potential issues . . .

 _Does your bionic arm have good cell reception? My WiFi gets so blinky._

. . . associated with that.

As well as the fact that he would at some unknown point be leaving again to go off and fight alongside his friend.

Which would be a challenge to their new lives when it happened.

She had decided after careful consideration it could be termed as military deployment.

Army guys fighting the good fight or whatever.

He could die, be maimed, anything.

But he was also a super soldier and pretty tough to kill. So she figured that would only allow him to get himself into more dangerous than normal situations.

But if any man were going to be worth the trouble, worth the worry, worth the concern, Bucky Barnes was it.

She didn't know how long their peaceful togetherness would last.

 _As long as it can, I guess._

 _I'm really gonna have to show Bucky The Matrix._

 _I wonder if he even likes movies?_

 _Maybe now we'll have a little time to find out._

She raised her head from his shoulder, unconsciously giving him The Big Adoring Eyes when he glanced over at her.

Causing him to smile gently.

And kiss her lovingly on the forehead.

* * *

 **Sappy, sappy, sappiness, huh? I know but they deserved it, I think.**

 **And no, no sense of foreboding here with the 'as long as it can'. It's just a healthy way to view life, I think.**

 **So, thanks to brigid1318, OnYourLeft107,** **Sassiebone, Char, Apg, Redhead2000, eileanskye, Ruby Rosetta Red, and tamarabvillar for your reviews.**

 **Next up, another reunion you might have been waiting for. :)**

 **And the last chapter.**


	39. Into the Sunset

I do not own Captain America anything.

Except the digital copies. They are all mine. Mine, I say! ;)

I Am Machine

Into the Sunset

* * *

The Verita School could have been mistaken for any older, stately, manor-like building in the second district of Bucharest.

Residing among mature shade trees on a well maintained green lawn.

The white washed, dignified architecture with its rounded tower, looked like just another tourist stop on the 'Old Worlde Bucharest' tour.

Save for the modern sign proclaiming 'Verita International School' with an artistic rendering of a tall, strong oak tree in full bloom.

The facility housed one of the few government funded schools willing to embrace and teach children with a variety of developmental challenges.

Bucky followed Amelia, allowing her to take the lead as she obviously knew her way around the establishment.

They signed in at the office, the secretary subtly checking out Bucky under her thick, dark lashes.

Whether due to his physical presence or because due to news stories he looked vaguely familiar to her.

Either way, he remained casual and held his ground.

Next to Amelia's open and friendly demeanor it was relatively easy.

But he did keep his cap on.

Visitor name badges affixed to their shirts, they walked together down the hall.

Past children's proudly displayed artwork, teacher's names and daily schedules.

Closed doors behind which the voices of youngsters could heard upraised in productive play.

Amelia quietly relaying information about the school to him.

". . . kid centered . . . hands-on . . . specialized needs . . ."

As if he were an important part of their family and needed to be aware of the goings-on of Simon's individualized education.

It gave him a strange feeling.

A good, strange feeling he had not anticipated.

 _I'm a part of this now._

 _I'm a part of their family._

 _I'm . . . glad._

And he was.

Amelia slowed, hand lightly touching his wrist to alert him to their arrival at their destination.

"It's his usual time to be picked up," Amelia was saying. "They should be finished cleaning up and sitting on the carpet."

And suddenly, Bucky was nervous.

Would Simon 'freak out', as Amelia put it? Would he scream and throw a tantrum because Bucky hadn't been there anymore and now he was and the boy was not ready for the change?

Would he not recognize him at all and freak out?

A strange person, a strange man, invading his space, his life? Making everything worse?

In a way, Bucky was more nervous about reuniting with Simon than Amelia.

Amelia would be polite, happy he was okay, he had anticipated that.

He hadn't anticipated the rest of it, how free and accepting and welcoming she had been toward him.

How good it would feel to finally-

 _Not here, not now. Stop thinking about it._

And then he and his Amelia-hungry body were distracted and subsequently derailed by their arrival into Simon's classroom.

It was clearly a place of focused, positive learning.

With attention to detail regarding their specialized audience.

Posters on the walls, bright and colorful without being riotous in their designs.

Clearly selected to provide information without being overwhelming.

Organized storage cubes. Worktables on which there appeared to be some sort of solar system projects several steps into the creation process.

Around the room, technology he was currently unfamiliar with. But he hoped he would be able to learn more about now he had time and didn't have to be afraid of them anymore.

Even large plastic storage containers with lids half cut off to provide a cozy workspace for students needing the comfort of closeness for them to think.

And Bucky thought he might want to crawl in one and hide. Because he was tense, on edge.

Trying to tell himself it would be okay.

Okay if Simon was calm. Okay if Simon freaked out.

Okay because Amelia had _said_ it would be okay.

And there he was.

Amongst a handful of children sitting on a blue rug quietly listening to a man read a book about Pluto.

 _Wait, Pluto's not a planet anymore? What?_

The boy.

With his dark hair and blank face.

Quiet, still demeanor.

He had grown in the year of his penny friend's absence.

Not a lot.

But some.

Enough Bucky could tell.

Amelia and Bucky stood listening quietly until the end of the story. And when the man closed the book, a woman standing near went and touched Simon on the shoulder.

She spoke quietly and pointed. And the boy followed her line of sight.

His eyes found his mother's face.

Familiarity. Happiness.

Sameness.

Then those eyes shifted to the man next to her.

And Bucky's bundle of nerves tried to remember how to smile.

The dark haired woman came over to talk to Amelia, relay the day's events.

Part of Bucky listened, understanding it had been a good experience for Simon.

Glad of it.

The other part of him just watched the boy's approach.

Simon stopped before him, eyes trained on Bucky's general knee area.

He was taller than he had been.

Not much. But enough that he easily reached the bottom of Bucky's upper torso.

"Hey, pal."

Bucky greeted him gently, not expecting any verbal response.

And certainly not the response he got a moment later.

When little Simon Watson moved forward three slow steps.

And rested his brown haired head against the Winter Soldier's lower ribcage in the closest he had ever come to a hug.

Heart tightening suddenly in his too tight chest, feeling extra moisture in his eyes, Bucky Barnes lifted his right hand.

Laid it gently on the boy's shoulder.

And felt Amelia beside him ready to burst apart.

He spoke through the lump in his throat, the tremble in his voice.

"I know, Simon. Me too."

* * *

It had been a very, very long time since Amelia Watson had slept with a man . . .

 _Mmm, cozy._

. . . in her bed.

She didn't know if she would be able to sleep at all tonight . . .

 _Mmm, warm._

. . . but she was going to try.

She lay on her on left side, facing the wall . . .

 _Mmm, thicc . . ._

. . . with Bucky's right arm wrapped around her middle.

Her back pressed to his front.

His face buried in her hair.

They were quiet and still now.

Though they hadn't been earlier.

"What . . . about . . . Simon?"

Her pausing in her enthusiastically blatant seduction of the new man in her life.

And responding with all honesty.

"Flip a coin, sweetie. That's about all the guess I have on any given night. If he wakes up, I'm sure I can remember later where we were, don't you?"

"Mmm . . . okay . . . if you're . . . sure . . ."

"I am."

Then she made him stop talking for a while. Intelligible words anyway.

And Simon never made a sound.

They wouldn't always be so lucky . . .

"Oh shoot . . . where's my underwear . . ."

. . . but Amelia was a here and now kind of woman.

And Bucky had currently been putty . . .

 _Actually no, but that's not the point, ooh but that is . . ._

. . . in her hands so she lived in the moment while she had it.

And now . . .

 _Mmm . . ._

. . . here they were.

On the edge of sleep after what could only be termed as a long and eventful day.

Wherein the man she loved had returned to her out of the blue.

Her autistic son had accepted it with unpresidented equanimity.

 _Me thinks me hears angels singing._

And they had experienced an absolutely divine afternoon and evening of relaxed familial togetherness.

 _Ladies and gentlemen, for the six hundred billionth time, the penny HAS BEEN UNCOVERED!_

And she had adored it all.

She'd had to dig a new toothbrush out of her stash for Bucky.

 _You_ said _you wouldn't come back. I couldn't Ancient Egyptian the toothbrush, sweetie._

Set an extra place at the table.

 _You're washing the dishes_ again _? Oooh, extra sex for you, baby! Oh, who are we kidding, it was always going to be that . . ._

And take extra patience with Simon who had not wanted to go to bed now that his new friend was back.

 _You and me both, kid._

But she had stuck to the plan, derailed a possible tantrum by the skin of her teeth . . .

 _Honestly, who comes up with this stuff . . ._

. . . and their first night together had all worked out okay.

Better than okay, . . .

 _Look, I've even got an extra pillow for you, man o' mine._

. . . great.

And she was happy.

* * *

It was weirdly comfortable, being here in this capacity with them.

But it felt right.

It felt good.

And it felt . . .

"Good night, Simon."

. . . like home.

Bucky Barnes didn't know if he would be able to sleep.

The bed was so soft, like lying on a marshmallow.

And he still listened to the quiet for sounds of stealthy movement.

Part of that was the years of paranoia and near constant fear he had endured.

And part of it was the simple desire to protect those whom he loved.

But all was okay so far.

Amelia was soft and warm and peaceful . . .

 _Wow, I didn't know women could do that! Would you . . . do that again?_

. . . in his arms.

And he was happy.

Wrapped up in her, their warm bodies breathing together. His face buried in her hair, the fragrance surrounding him all uniquely hers.

Bucky's vernacular didn't know the word _hiraeth_. His mind didn't know the definition: a nostalgia, a yearning, grief for the lost places of the past.

He intellectually was unaware of its written existence.

But his soul knew the pain of it intimately and whispered to him that the haunt, the ache of it, just might be beginning to fade.

Just a bit.

And his human soul was happy.

"Bucky?"

"Mmm?"

"I'm glad you're here."

"Me too."

She snuggled back against him, causing him to gladly tighten his embrace around her.

"I love you."

He was not embarrassed to admit that hearing those words made him smile.

Made him feel weak and strong and full and happy in his chest all at the same time.

"I love you too, Amelia."

Made him feel like there could be hope in the world again for him.

"Good night."

Now that he no longer had to consider himself a machine. Or a monster.

"Goodnight."

And he let himself rest.

And was happy.

* * *

 **I think we'll let them rest now, gentle readers. Hopefully this was a satisfying ending for you. I have very much loved writing for these wonderful people and I was very pleased you all were receptive to this tale as well.**

 **I did do some research on the Verita School but it was not exhaustive so if I made a mistake, I apologize.**

 **Thanks to brigid1318, Sassiebone, eileanskye, Rosetta Ruby Red, DinahRay, tamarbvillar, OnYourLeft107, and WordWeaver81 for so wonderfully reviewing so frequently.**

 **Thanks also to Shar82204 for adding your support to this story.**

 **Finally, thanks to all the silent readers of this tale. I have appreciated all of you and your time reading.**


End file.
